A Handy Guide to Living with a Spider
by CCKK12
Summary: You were assigned to kill the Black Widow but you made a different call instead? Now you want her to be your partner and friend but you aren't sure if she will eventually murder you? Don't worry; all you need is a couple of ground rules and your head will stay where it is. — Clintasha moments. Rated M for swearing and sexual themes.
1. Rule 1: Sex is not business

**I don't own the characters.**

 **Clint makes a decision to turn the Black Widow instead of taking her out. She wants to show him how grateful she is.**

* * *

 **Rule #1: Sex is not business**

 **Clint**

The mission was crystal clear. Take out the infamous Black Widow. Come home. Write the report on it. Enjoy the glory.

It was clear and simple. So how did Clint Barton end up in his hotel room with a very much alive Natalia Romanova with an arrow through her thigh? But more importantly, why did he wake up in the middle of the night having a naked Soviet assassin in his bed?

It was her. The Black Widow, his mark, his unfinished mission who he had cuffed to a water pipe in the bathroom specifically to avoid such situations.

It was useless now to figure out how it had happened exactly. Clint reached for the special arrow that he kept under the pillow and pressed it to her neck. With the same movement he lunged forward and trapped Natalia under his body that was at least covered by an old t-shirt and his underwear.

The assassin seemed surprised by the reaction as she frowned but did not say anything. _She must be in pain_ , Clint thought, as his weight pressed on the wound on her thigh that he had previously caused and patched up. He shifted so he could ease the pressure on her thigh and it made her wince.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Clint demanded. "How did you get out of the handcuffs?"

The Widow just shrugged with a mocking smirk. "I can get out of handcuffs sixteen different ways."

"You should have told me not to bother with it," Clint remarked.

"I wanted to surprise you, Hawkeye," she replied. She wriggled a little and pressed her hips against his now noticeable hardness. Well, she was beautiful, truly. She was only eighteen, according to the reports, at least, but she had porcelain skin, the roundest bottom he had ever seen and plum lips to die for. Quite literally, actually. It was one trait that made the Black Widow so dangerous, the way she was able to use her body to distract and manipulate. And then murder.

"If you want to end this, you could have just strangled me," Clint pointed out. He was offended. It was one thing to get out of the handcuffs. It was his fault, he should have secured her at least three or four ways. It was also acceptable that she wanted to kill him. She was his mark, after all. Yeah, he had made a different call, but perhaps she changed her mind. Perhaps she wanted to sink back into her old and familiar assassin life. But damn was it cold that she wanted to seduce him and murder him afterwards.

Natalia frowned. "Why would I want to end this?"

"Well, you are naked. In my bed. You are the Black Widow. That's your method, isn't it?"

She seemed confused and a tad… indignant. "First off, I have several hundred methods. You think I'm afraid of your toys?" She asked as she carelessly hooked her finger under the shaft and pushed the arrow back. "And no, I didn't come here to fuck you and kill you after."

"What's your plan then?"

She shrugged. Instead of replying right away, she sneaked her hand onto his now almost painful erection through the boxers. He gasped softly. _Damn, she's good._

She smiled seductively clearly enjoying her power over the archer. "Getting on your good side," she said and leaned over so her lips brushed against Clint's neck.

Clint pulled back swiftly as if her kiss burned his skin. It did, in a sense. He reached over his bed and grabbed a t-shirt from the chair next to it. He dropped it on Natalia's stomach and sat up. "Put this on."

"What is it now?" She asked. She glanced at his hips and licked her lips.

Clint averted his glance suddenly feeling an immense need for fresh air. He got up and stepped to the window, opening it widely. He took a deep breath. When he turned back to the bed, Natalia sat on it wearing his violet t-shirt with her legs crossed.

"It's not like you don't want it," she remarked.

Clint crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I don't. I just have a hard-on. It'll pass."

The Widow smiled and moved on all fours. The position only accentuated her perfect breasts under his shirt which didn't help Clint. At all.

"Stop this," he snapped. "Stop it goddamnit." He jumped on the windowsill. Dangling his legs usually helped him get rid of some frustration. "Nobody ever said no to you?"

Natalia looked honestly taken aback. "Why would they, Barton?"

Clint remained silent for a long moment. The Black Widow might be able to kill with her pinky finger but she sure as hell did not understand sex. At all. On the other hand, where could she have learnt about it? Clint doubted she had ever had a meaningful relationship. She had always been a killing machine, not a woman. Up until this point. Clint felt sad over the life, the pain, the assault this young woman had had to endure.

"Alright, Natalia. It's time to go over some basic rules."

"Natasha," she replied. She returned to her previous position crossing her legs under her.

"Excuse me?"

"Natasha Romanoff. You Americans butcher my language. This is my English name. Please use this one so I won't have to cringe inwardly every time you call it."

Clint couldn't help but chuckle. There she was. The real Natasha Romanoff. Now that she was not in femme fatale mode, her sarcasm suddenly appeared.

"Alright Natasha. First, you don't need to use sex to get on my good side. If you were on my bad side, you'd be dead. You don't need to resort to such games. You want something, you tell me. You get mad at me, you punch me. You wanna let off some steam, you challenge me for a fight. It'll be good for training too."

Natasha frowned. "You want to fight me?"

Clint nodded. "Eventually, yes. You have good tricks. I am always open for learning new things."

"But you don't want to fuck me."

"No," Clint replied. He could see Natasha picked up on the lie; luckily she let it slide. Obviously he wouldn't mind to have sex with her. But not now and not like that. To be honest it would be probably best to forget about it altogether. He was about to bring a Soviet assassin that he had been supposed to kill back to SHIELD. It was complicated enough already.

"What else?" Natasha asked.

"If you want to kill me, tell me now. No hard feelings. We can have a duel up on the roof and get it over with."

"Why are you so fixated on the murder thing? You said you wanted to give me a chance. If you changed your mind—"

"I didn't," Clint cut in. "I don't want to take you out. I think turning you would be much more beneficial. For me and for the company. And also for you. You want to leave that life behind, don't you?" Natasha nodded. "That's what I'm saying. Now the thing is, we really have to be on the same page about that. I won't keep looking over my shoulder." He paused. "So, Miss Romanoff, do you want to kill me or not?"

"No," Natasha replied simply.

Clint smiled. "Good." He jumped off the sill. "You can sleep in the bed. I'll take the couch. Tomorrow we're leaving."

Natasha nodded. "Clint?"

"Hmm?" Clint asked as he grabbed a pillow and a blanket from the bed and headed to the couch that was at the other side of the room.

"Why didn't you just shoot me?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Clint smirked. "Are you mad about the wound?" He asked as he prepared the makeshift bed.

"Not mad enough to snap your neck for it."

Clint could swear she was smiling. "Good night, Natasha."

"Good night, Hawkeye," she responded softly.

Clint was still not sure if he had made the right decision. It was the first mission he refused to carry out. As he was listening to Natasha's breathing he realised it didn't matter anymore. He had saved someone. Wasn't that the objective SHIELD claimed to have? Helping people and giving them hope for a better future? Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow claimed a little part of herself back today and named it Natasha Romanoff. It was worth sacrificing the part of Hawkeye that always followed his orders without question.


	2. Rule 2: No Critical Injury - No Doctor

**Hello Everyone, thanks for sticking with the story! :)**

 **Natasha doesn't like doctors so Clint decides to tend to her himself.**

* * *

 **Rule#2: No Critical Injury - No Doctor**

 **Natasha**

She didn't know where Clint was. Or where she was, for that matter. Clint had said everything would be alright, that he had the authority to handle this case. By _case_ he meant that she was supposed to be dead but she wasn't and that he wasn't supposed to lie to his boss about having killed the assassin he was planning to bring back home but he had.

It was obvious that if something like that had happened at the KGB, Clint would be in the torture chamber already. Oh, and her carcass would be dumped in a river before dinnertime.

But this was SHIELD, the United States of America, the Land of Freedom. So Clint was still alive. Or was he? Now that Natasha recalled, the man with the eyepatch was not impressed with his favourite archer. Clint had told her he was the Favourite Archer. Natasha liked that an assassin found it important to tag his role at the company and to mention it to the one he was supposed to kill so she decided to believe him. But only on that.

Right. The man, Fury (Natasha was still amused by how perfectly the name fit the boss who had almost spat flames seeing her breathing), was not impressed, she didn't know where Clint was at the moment and even though they were in New York not Moscow, this was still a company used to shedding a little more blood than necessary if the reports she had read were correct.

It was unavoidable to ask the question: where was she? What would happen to her? If Clint had deceased already she was nothing more to SHIELD than a problem. They would put a bullet through her skull and she was lucky if they didn't plan to get information out of her beforehand. It had been 87 days since she had been last tortured and she was determined to reach 100 for once.

Only when she heard shuffling feet did she realise that her eyes were closed. When she opened them she saw a man in a white robe with a syringe in his hand.

Natasha was proud of her gut feelings. They helped her a lot during the years. They were instincts that literally saved her life a thousand times. One of the rules that she had established by the age of thirteen was that people with syringes could not be trusted. Ever.

She wanted to pull away her right arm that the syringe was getting closer to, but it didn't move. She glanced down and saw the handcuffs. But for some reason her left hand was free. _Big mistake,_ she mused as she reached forward and grabbed the man's neck with her left.

Although it was an uncomfortable position she could still snap his neck with relatively little effort. But this was unfamiliar territory. Before murdering someone she preferred discovering a little more about the situation. So she started her research.

"Where am I?" She shouted at the man. He was not able to answer as he was struggling in her grasp to breathe. She looked around for possible weapons "What is that?" She asked as she let his throat go and tore the syringe out of his hand.

The man coughed as he backed away from her and bent over panting at the wall.

Natasha had enough time to get an upgraded bobby pin out of her hair and she started picking at the handcuffs. She was free in eighteen seconds and armed with the unknown liquid in the syringe.

She jumped off the bed which was unusually painful. She remembered it was her left thigh. Looking down she saw the bandage that Clint had put on it and that was now dirty and a red spot on it indicated that she was going to bleed through it. Yes, swift movements didn't help freshly stitched arrow wounds, she knew that. But it wasn't like she could just switch off her fight-or-flight reaction after more than ten years in business.

The other thing she saw confused her even more. She was wearing a gown. The kind with the little blue dots on it. She didn't understand it. If they wanted to murder or torture her why change her clothes? Her veins were there under Clint's violet t-shirt that she had worn earlier today as well.

For a moment she got distracted. What happened to the t-shirt that the archer had offered her so she didn't have to put her Black Widow costume back on? If just one thread wasn't in the right place in that shirt when she got it back she would burn this building down.

But there was no time to contemplate this now. She turned back to the man and headed towards him with the syringe in her hand. "Where the fuck is Hawkeye?" She continued, quite optimistically, since she hadn't received any answer to the first two questions.

"Miss Romanoff," the man started, much too calm for her taste, "I am trying to help. Please get back on your bed."

Natasha looked around. There was nobody else around and the man did not have any weapon on him. So why was he acting like he had the upper hand? And then she saw it. The red button on the wall that the man must have pressed.

She cussed in Russian. The man hadn't only backed away because of the pain and fear. But to press that damn button. If she had made such a mistake in the Red Room it would have cost three days of food supply for her if not her life.

In a couple of seconds she heard the sirens go off and running people from the corridor. _What a shame,_ she thought as she stabbed the syringe into the man's neck just before the STRIKE team entered the room.

* * *

 **Clint**

"What was so fucking hard to understand about the mission?" Fury growled.

Clint was happy Natasha wasn't there to witness the argument. He might have simplified the situation when he had told her there would be no issue with Fury. But Natasha had looked at him in a way that showed amusement and also something that he preferred to think of as awe. If he had painted a little more appealing picture of Clint Barton, the Favourite Archer, than reality, it was only not to disappoint the Black Widow. That was acceptable, wasn't it?

But now he had to listen to the endless scolding that started with his boss threatening him with cutting off his fingers and throwing his precious bow into the fireplace. But thirty minutes into the rant it looked much brighter for Clint.

"If she just bats her eye at the wrong moment, I'll get her executed. Then I will punish you for wasting company resources and my precious time."

"Obviously, sir."

"She's all your responsibility."

"Understood, sir."

"And Barton?"

"Sir?"

"Should I worry about you not eliminating your marks in the future? Or only when they have a great ass?"

Clint smirked and shrugged. "I have a thing for redheads, sir."

"I can see that." Clint could swear he saw Fury's lip curl upwards just a little.

* * *

Clint heard the sirens on his way back to his chambers. He was sure it had something to do with Natasha and as he started running towards the infirmary he felt his blood run cold. What if she killed someone? There would be no way in hell he could explain it to Fury.

He drew his bow and entered the door of the ward where Natasha was held. The scene before his eyes was surely one to remember.

Natasha was in a hospital gown which apparently didn't prevent her from giving a hard time to STRIKE Team Tango. Three people were already knocked out on the floor and the doctor that was responsible for her treatment lay in the corner, conscious but literally drooling and seemingly unable to move.

The Black Widow was fighting two men at the same time. Clint almost forgot what he was there for as he looked at the young woman's harmonious moves that reminded him of a dance. _The Ballet of Death_. She punched agent Colten in the neck and with the same momentum turned around and kicked agent Jepson in the chest barefoot. She stumbled slightly as she stood on her left, the injured leg. This moment was enough for Colten to give her a jab in the jaw.

Agent Colten's left hook was infamous around the training room. Clint himself had nursed a black eye for a week once after a bet had gone wrong. So he felt sincere respect at the way Natasha didn't even touch her surely burning jaw but ducked and punched into the man's stomach instead.

"Hey!" Clint finally remembered why he was there. He raised the bow and arrow in his hand which made all three freeze in their place. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Barton," Natasha panted. "You're alive."

Clint raised his eyebrow. "Course I am." He glanced at the standing agents. "So? What happened?"

"She attacked the doc," Jepson replied clutching at his chest where Natasha had kicked him. Clint imagined he was pretty grateful she didn't wear any shoes.

When Clint looked at Natasha she just shrugged. "I panicked a little," she explained.

"Panicked," he repeated stunned. This was definitely not an answer he expected.

"He wanted to stab something in me."

"Muscle relaxant. And painkiller. Everyone receives it when getting stitches," Colten remarked. "So Miss Romanoff got out of her handcuffs and—"

"Handcuffs? You put her in handcuffs?"

"Just her right hand," Jepson replied defensively. He clearly thought Clint didn't of approve their decision to restrain Natasha but it wasn't about that. He just knew handcuffs didn't work on her.

"She knows sixteen ways to get out of handcuffs. And you only put them on one hand. Then you sent in the doc instead of waiting for me to explain the situation to her," Clint said. "I am not surprised she got scared."

"I didn't get _scared._ I got panicked," Natasha corrected.

"Right." Clint lowered his bow. "Let's go, Natasha." The Widow looked at him confusedly but left the ward. Clint stayed behind for a moment. "Call Fury and tell him I'm taking care of it. I'll let him know if she needs a doctor."

* * *

He only spoke again when they were back in his room. He helped Natasha lie on his bed and went to the bathroom. He returned with a med kit and knelt beside the bed.

"The doctor just wanted to help you," he said as he took the scissors and cut the old bandage off her thigh.

"I do not trust people in white robes and with syringes," Natasha responded quietly.

Clint looked at her and could see right away she didn't exaggerate. Even just talking about it Natasha had visceral disgust in her eyes by the memories. He nodded. "Okay. Can I give you medicine? It will hurt too much without it."

Natasha looked amused. " _Too much_? You don't know anything about pain if you think stitches hurt too much."

"I know enough," Clint replied. "Just the muscle relaxant then."

"No."

Clint sighed. "As you wish." He shook his head looking at the freshly bleeding wound. "You disrespected my handiwork," he pointed at the ripped suture. "You'd deserve to go back to the ward so professionals can tend to you."

"You wouldn't be so cruel," Natasha responded with a smirk.

Clint disinfected a scalpel and a pair of tweezers and started picking at the wound to remove the suture. He had to give it to her that she didn't even flinch.

"You seemed surprised that I'm alive," he remarked.

Natasha hummed. "I realised that Fury was livid seeing me here, and then woke up to being chained to a hospital bed and someone wanting to stab a syringe in me. I thought I was about to get killed or tortured." Her voice was neutral, matter-of-factly. It made Clint wonder how many times she had been tortured or about to get killed by injections.

"This is not Russia," was all he could say. He squirted antiseptic on the wound and pressed it together to stitch it up. Again. He didn't like to be treated in the infirmary himself but he hoped Natasha would get used to it in the future. He was an archer, not a doctor, goddamnit.

"Old habits die hard," she replied. "Why did you bring me here?" She added before the silence could stretch over them.

"It's a bit messy over there. Fury was contacted and I didn't want you near him after I just promised him you'd be fine."

"You didn't want me near him or to be near him?"

"Could you just stop calling out my bluff all the time?" Clint snapped.

Natasha raised her hands in surrender. "Thanks for helping," she said simply. "Although you injured me in the first place."

"Instead of killing you. You're welcome."

Natasha smirked but didn't say anything. When Clint glanced up he saw her observe his arms and working hands with an expression that made him feel warmth in his stomach. _I'm screwed_ , he concluded as he finished up the stitches.

"I want my t-shirt back," Natasha said as he put a clean strip of bandage on her.

He frowned and looked up. "You mean my t-shirt? The purple one I lent you?"

"The violet one you gifted me."

Clint laughed softly and shook his head. "That was my favourite t-shirt, Natasha."

"Then you should have taken better care of it, Barton," she replied not missing a beat.

Clint grinned as he finished patching up the girl. Sure, Fury would not be happy and the members of Team Tango would probably give him a hard time in the gym for a couple of weeks. Not to mention he'd better not visit the doctor for a while. But he couldn't bring himself to worry about any of that. Not when he felt so cosy bantering with one of the world's deadliest assassins who just snatched his shirt.


	3. Rule 3: Running off only with notice

**Natasha decides to leave. Clint doesn't agree.**

* * *

 **Rule #3: Running off only with notice**

 **Clint**

Fuck, she wasn't anywhere in this goddamned building. Clint checked her chambers, then he checked his. Then the gym. Then the canteen. Then the garden. Then the library. Then he thought about asking a woman to look for her in the changing room of the gym, but he didn't want anyone to suspect he had lost her. So he went and checked it himself. Natasha was not there, but he got a right hook in the jaw from a towel-clad STRIKE team trainee named Hill.

So now his jaw hurt and he had lost Natasha Romanoff. This was surely not the most ideal Thursday morning he could imagine.

He didn't understand how this could happen. He was confident Natasha had been adapting to her new life as a future SHIELD agent. After two weeks of surveillance in a locked up room, where Clint visited her twice every day, she was moved to a room three doors away from his and after two more weeks she received her own key to it. She ate well and exercised together with other recruits, usually beating the living hell out of them. She even seemed to pick up a new hobby as she filled the little shelf above her bed with books taken from the huge library of the building and from Clint's own collection. He mentioned it to her a couple of times, but she assured him that she would take good care of the books along with the t-shirts, a piece of soap which she liked the smell of and one of his special arrows with the shortened shaft that he kept near his bed for self-defence. Clint did not mind; he liked to imagine it gave her peace of mind to have it.

Everything had seemed ideal with Romanoff. Actually Fury had even mentioned some times that he was looking for a suitable mission for the Widow. But the Widow was gone. Clint knew that it was the worst possible news.

Now according to the E341 protocol they would hunt her down and drag her back dead or alive because the Black Widow could not be unaccounted for. It was an issue of national and international security. If she was caught alive she might be executed by SHIELD and it would mean his own end as well. Fury had been clear about killing Romanoff for any misstep she made and him with her, Favourite Archer or not.

* * *

 **Natasha**

She couldn't do it. She was an assassin. Cold, determined, fighting to kill. SHIELD agent helping people and contributing to the creation of a better world: that was not her.

Sometimes it was easy. She woke up, trained, had breakfast, trained some more, talked to Clint, read up on some boring company policy, had lunch, trained again, had dinner, read a little or just had a walk in the garden, talked to Clint, went to sleep. Other times it was hard. It was all about schedules, expectations, responsibilities. The unspoken project of making her SHIELD's deadliest agent.

She just couldn't do it, for fuck's sake. She needed to breathe. Why didn't anyone let her breathe? Well, except for Clint.

Clint was the only thing keeping her in the building for so long. He was a friend. As much as friendships existed in Natasha's world, that is. He cared for her. He might only care because it was his life on the line as well, because she was his cross to bear. But at least he pretended well.

He asked about her day. _What do you mean you punched Giffard? Nobody has ever done that before. There's an ongoing bet on whether he came from space._ He gave her tips about the life around here. _Never mute the phone if it's Fury's call. Never. You might think it's a good idea because it is 4am and you are ridiculously hungover. It's not a good idea. Next thing you know you are on your way for a mission in Uganda._ He made promises about their future. _You like Chinese? It's like the best restaurant in whole New York. Yes, of course it is verified data, it's not just an opinion. Well, you'll judge for yourself. I'll take you at the end of your training. If you don"t kill the examiner during the hand-on-hand session. No Chinese for you if you murder so carelessly, Romanoff._

Hell, _s_ he didn't want to leave Clint. But she had to get away. She knew it probably meant fifty people would look for her. They would find her and kill her. But at least she had some days to breathe.

* * *

She had a job now at the company which meant she had had her first salary two weeks ago. It was a pretty sum that she had immediately transferred to a secret Swiss bank account. She was now an official recruit not a constantly watched assassin which meant she had the right to leave the building. That came in handy for someone who wanted to escape SHIELD. She waited until midnight to leave. She didn't take anything but the special arrow she had borrowed from Clint. She walked out of the building; fortunately nobody batted an eye. Stealing that car was just as easy.

By 8am she was in Canada, near a little village named Mirstone. The little house was still in the woods. She had once used it for a mission for KGB. It was now empty except for a bare bedstead in the small living area. Natasha had stopped at a supermarket and bought the essentials, so she had everything to stay for a few days: blankets, a little traveling toiletry box, lots of bottled water and prepackaged food, even a basin. It was not much but it had to do. She also bought a Russian novel but she doubted she would have the time and interest to read. She expected herself to be alerted non-stop like she usually was when on the run. Not the right time to deepen her knowledge on Dostoevsky.

It was around 10pm when she heard it. There were three steps leading to the little porch in front of the door. The second one creaked when stepped on. She jumped and approached the door, with the arrow in hand. She heard the faint cussing as well as the rustling at the lock.

She was ready when the door opened and as the hooded man entered, she took a perfect aim, rotated her shoulder and slammed the arrow into the intruder's jaw. Or would have, as before she could finish the movement she saw a drawn arrow pointing at her neck. "With my own stuff? That's cold, Natasha," she heard the familiar voice and she was certain the man was smiling under the hood.

* * *

 **Clint**

There was still a chance. It was little and risky and he absolutely did not want to do it, but he had to. He had to go after her. Without telling anyone about it. Now it was 9am. As her first training she did alone, she would be officially looked for at the second training with the new recruits. That started at 10am so he had roughly one hour.

He looked around in her room. Everything was there except for the arrow. She had barely taken anything with her which was smart. She had taken a weapon which was also smart. But as it happened to be his arrow, the choice of weapon was questionable.

Clint had had ten special arrows made back then. One (#6) had broken in Morocco when he was woken up by a rather rude terrorist group, one (#2) he had had to leave behind in a Parisian hotel room because of a hasty exit through the window while dodging bullets. One (#9) currently was in Natasha's possession. It left him with seven.

The arrows were pretty simple looking, apart from the shortened shaft. Clint hoped it was Natasha's impression as well and she hadn't done anything to the arrow. Her arrow was necessary for Clint's plan as every one of the collection had a small tracing device inside.

Clint took a deep, hopeful breath before he activated his favourite one (#1). The coordinates of #9 were soon visible on the fletching. Natasha either didn't know about the tracking device or she wanted to give him a chance to find her. Well, if so, she'd get what she wished for. She wouldn't hear the end of it for bloody _years_.

* * *

Canada. Marvellous. He had to leave his phone and most of his SHIELD gear behind to avoid getting tracked. He stole a car from a nearby parking lot and started the long and boring drive.

His only chance was getting Natasha back before his colleagues did. Even then he had only Fury's benevolence to count on if he wanted to live. And Clint truly wanted to live. Close to Natasha Romanoff if he had the choice. He didn't know what she exactly meant to him. Perhaps they were friends. But then, friends don't leave other friends in so much trouble without even giving a hint about their intentions beforehand.

He didn't know what to expect, but he was almost sure he would not get to her while she was still sleeping. She would probably wait for him by the door. So he drew his bow. As it turned out, it was a good decision because he almost got a hole pierced through his jaw. By his own arrow. Or was #9 hers now?

Clint did not have the time to think about technicalities like this because Natasha dropped the arrow to the ground and barely waited until he lowered the bow before she lunged forward and jumped into his arms, hooked her legs around his waist and kissed him.

Clint was so stunned it took him a moment to drop his own weapon and slide his hand on her bottom. He backed into the wall with her still in his arms, her mouth still violently moving against his, her tongue dancing with his. The kiss was making Clint heady, which is definitely not the ideal state to be in when you are an archer who just came to the Canadian woods tracing his master assassin colleague who ran off unleashing at least eight STRIKE team members who are now after her, and consequently, you.

"Natasha," he murmured as he tried to break the kiss. It was a complicated task as she didn't give him enough time to talk before crashing her lips against his again. "Nat," he tried again. "Na— Romanoff!" He snapped. She stopped kissing him. He couldn't see her face in the darkness but he was sure she rolled her eyes at his stern albeit horse voice.

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Bloody hell, Clint. It's not your first time, is it?"

"It's my first time chasing you to a foreign country, yes." Clint sighed. "We have problems. Problems armed with guns and an order to take our heads back to Fury."

"Yes."

"So that takes us back to my question: what are you doing?"

Natasha placed her feet back on the ground but her hand stayed entangled in his hair. Only now did Clint notice that she had pushed his hood off his head.

"We'll probably get killed soon. I ran away and you disobeyed at least seven of your orders."

"Yes," Clint agreed to help her get to her point. Dying was not on his to do list for the next days, but he didn't want to distract her.

"I've always been wondering how it would be. You and me."

"Always?"

"Ever since you kicked me out of your bed in Warsaw."

"So?"

"So, my darling, you get to be the Black Widow's last supper."

* * *

 **Natasha**

She didn't understand the disappointed look on his face. He must feel the sexual tension that had been going on between them for weeks now. He was a man, she was a woman and she only had him in the whole world. He was the only thing separating Natasha Romanoff from the Black Widow that had stepped out of the Red Room and counted 277 official and 125 unofficial kills working for the KGB. Of course she wanted to spend her last hours having sex with him.

"I can't believe we wasted our first kiss like this," Clint said. He stepped away from the door, clicked his flashlight and was slowly checking the room.

"Wasted? What are you talking about?" Natasha asked.

"Where is the nearest town? I need a phone."

Natasha raised her eyebrow. "About fifty miles eastward."

"Good. Let's go then," he added motioning towards the door.

She wondered if the concept of spending the night together affected him at all. He seemed rather annoyed by it. But why did he use the word _waste_ then?

* * *

Clint bought a prepaid cellphone and dialled a number in the parking lot while they leaned against the car that he had stolen. Natasha knew it was Fury he was talking to.

"No. Yes. No, sir, I. Yes I am aware. No. Tomorrow. By tomorrow afternoon. Sir, just… yes I understand. No. Sir, if we're not there tomorrow, you'll only need to send someone to clean up the bodies. Yes. Neither of us are interested in the SHIELD method. Yes sir. Goodnight." Clint dropped the phone on the ground and stomped on it. "Get in," he told Natasha.

"Is he angry?" She asked.

Clint shrugged. "No. He is not angry because I told him we would be back by tomorrow."

"We will?"

"What are you doing here, Romanoff?" Clint asked as he was driving back to the house.

Natasha shrugged. "And you?"

Clint gave her a reprimanding look. "Stop responding with questions."

Natasha decided to watch the road instead of Clint's jaw and replied quietly. "I had enough, Hawkeye. It was all too much. I came away from the KGB and now SHIELD puts even bigger pressures on me. They don't want Natasha Romanoff, do they? They want the Black Widow groomed to their own needs."

"And you don't want to be the Widow anymore."

"Maybe not. They didn't even give me the chance to decide what I want."

"So you ran off. Knowing they will come after you and kill you."

"And hoping for some days to myself before they do."

Clint parked the car and they entered the house. Natasha realised Clint had bought a packet of candles as well. Now he started lighting them around the little room placing them on the floor. Natasha sat down on the thin mattress she had brought and opened a bag of chips.

"How did you find me?" She asked. Clint didn't answer. "It has to be the arrow, huh? I didn't bring anything else and nobody knows about this place."

"Every one of those arrows is tracked," he finally said. He sat next to her and grabbed a handful of the chips. "Didn't you think of checking it?"

She shrugged. Of course she had. She had been trained to be able to disappear. Bringing along an object belonging to someone else, moreover tech gear that could be possibly tracked, that was a beginner's mistake. Or her giving a chance to Barton to find her. "I thought of not checking it, rather."

* * *

 **Clint**

"When you found out I was gone," Natasha started after a long pause that they spent eating chips and staring into the flames, "Did you wish you hadn't made that different call at all? That I wasn't your problem?"

"You're not my problem, Romanoff," Clint replied. "You're my challenge."

"I don't know if I like that or not," Natasha huffed.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be your project. To make me a better person, to train me a SHIELD agent, whatever."

"What do you want to be for me then?"

"A partner." Clint smirked and shook his head.

"Big words for someone who just left her partner behind."

"I didn't leave you behind, Barton. I left SHIELD behind."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. But now we'll have to figure out what deal you want to come back with me." She seemed reluctant. "Look, Natasha," Clint continued. "I could postpone your death one time. I might be lucky to do it the second time. But we don't get any more shot. We either come up with something or we die by tomorrow morning. Warsaw was my choice. So Canada is yours. Tell me what you want."

Natasha sighed. "What did you mean by that wasted kiss?" She asked instead of answering the question at hand.

Clint sighed. He had been in a constant state of anxiety for sixteen hours now and she wanted to talk about that bloody kiss. "I meant that I imagined it happening another way."

She smirked. "So you imagined it."

Clint ran his hand through his hair. "You are beautiful, Natasha. Of course I imagined it. Along with everyone else who's ever seen you."

"But you didn't use your chance. Unlike everyone else who's ever got it."

"Because we didn't have the time," Clint snapped. "Now will you tell me what you want? A deal or a quick death?"

Natasha chuckled softly. "The deal." She kept looking at Clint in a rather funny way.

The archer leaned over and whispered into her ear. "Yes, I am going to fuck you, Romanoff. But not like everyone else before. And you're going to love it. Not like with your victims. But you have to wait for it." He smiled and pressed a kiss on her cheek before pulling back and taking a sip of one of the water bottles she had bought.

It seemed like the porcelain white of Natasha's cheek changed to a light pink but it was quite dark with the candles so Clint probably just imagined it. But he surely didn't imagine the little gasp that he felt on his neck before he pulled back from her.

It took hours of discussion but in the end Clint and Natasha returned to the SHIELD headquarters and now she had three days off every two weeks along with other benefits. Clint received a new mission in Zimbabwe. At least it only took a week.


	4. Rule 4: No tricking

**Sorry for the late update! In this one Natasha gets tested by SHIELD and Clint goes with it. (It contains slight mentions of torture/rape.)**

* * *

 **Rule #4: No tricking**

 **Natasha**

It happened about four weeks after her little trip to Canada. Natasha was woken up by the suspiciously shuffling feet on the corridor. She had always been a bad sleeper, she tended to wake up to any slight noise. But so far she hadn't had any problem in her room in SHIELD's headquarters because nobody dared make any noise on their floor where along with her and Clint 23 other agents or to be agents slept. So it was suspicious. She only had time to reach for Clint's arrow (#9) under her pillow before the door opened and seven men in masks barged in. She managed to punch someone in the stomach and caused a deep cut on a forearm with the arrowhead before everything went black.

She woke up still in her pyjamas, a tight red camisole and long white silk pants, with her hands chained to a massive iron ring above her head. She was about to start getting out of the handcuffs when she noticed the burning pain in her wrists. They were not in handcuffs but bound by the chain itself. It was so tight that she could not move her arms without feeling the painful bites of the iron against her skin.

She was in a cell underground. At least that was her guess seeing the iron ring and the wetness of the wall she sat against. She took deep breaths and tried to determine what she knew. She was apparently kidnapped from her room. But if the kidnappers could take her from there, they must have broken in SHIELD. Or it could be an inside job. Either way, SHIELD seemed to be compromised. The question was, was there anyone who could possibly know where she was and could come and rescue her?

Hawkeye. Her soon to be partner always kept an eye on her. He had driven to Canada to bring her back. He had gone out of his way several times already to help her, not to mention his decision not to murder her in Warsaw in the first place. Clint could find her, even if she didn't have his arrow with her. Clint could—

The door opened and Natasha gasped. "Hey Nat," Clint smiled as two guards pushed him down and pulled his hands up, handcuffing him and attaching it to the ring. He frowned seeing her chains. "Guys, is that necessary? Give her—" One of the men kicked him in the knee which made Barton hiss slightly. They remained alone as the guards left without even glancing at Natasha's reddened skin. "Jerks. You okay?" Clint asked inexplicably cheerful for their situation. Natasha found it hard to breathe seeing the person who she hoped was her saviour chained up together with her. Her vision of the room started to blur and all she heard was Clint repeating her name and the humming of her blood in her ears.

* * *

 **Clint**

"With all due respect, sir, how could any of you think it's a good idea?" Clint asked. He had just come out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist when he had seen Fury sitting on his bed. The director had proceeded to tell him about the plan about Natasha's fake kidnapping tomorrow.

"Barton, why are you making this so difficult? You know we need to do a test. We did the same before you were sent on field."

"My test was shooting arrows at moving targets."

"But you weren't a killing machine beforehand. We need to see how she reacts to danger."

"She might kill someone. Did you think of that possibility?"

"Yes. That's why we send you in with her. We need you to monitor her. And if you think she can't take it or that she poses a threat to my guys, you call it off. You'll get handcuffs with a panic button on them. You press it, we get you two out."

"Hilarious," Clint huffed. "She will never trust me again."

Fury looked at him in a weird way. "I wouldn't worry about that, Barton. You two seem pretty tight."

* * *

So Clint sat there with the panic button under his thumb and watched as Natasha started hyperventilating. "Natasha," he called repeatedly but she was losing control. The agents had told him she had blacked out when they had taken her. He was there to make sure it would not happen again. He needed to get her back in the right state of mind without helping her too much or letting her know it was all fake. If he screwed this up, Natasha would have to go through this again.

"Hey, Natasha. You need to calm down, okay?" He said in a deep voice.

But she didn't pay attention. She tugged on the chains until the pain was taking over and mumbled to herself. "One hundred forty-nine. Zero. One hundred forty-nine. Zero. One hundred forty-nine. Zero."

Clint frowned. "Romanoff, listen to me." But Natasha only looked up when he stretched his leg and nudged her bare foot with his boot. She jumped slightly and squealed as the chain broke the tender skin on her wrist.

"Barton, you were supposed to get me out of here," she spat.

"I'm on it," Clint sighed. Natasha would kill him when she realised he was involved in this. "What are those numbers?"

Natasha took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a long moment before answering. "I was last tortured one hundred forty-nine days ago. Tomorrow morning that number will be zero."

Clint was first too stunned to talk. This test was definitely going in the wrong direction. He took his time to respond. "Why do you think they will torture you?"

"Because that is what happens when they capture the Black Widow," Natasha replied. "First they start with the slaps pretending that they are doing it to get information out of me. They they start groping my breasts, telling me they have never seen such a hot little spy. Then—" she paused and Clint saw blood on her wrist as she tugged on the bounds again.

"Nat," he murmured. "Hey, it's not the same. It is not that situation. You are a SHIELD agent now, okay?"

"It is always that situation," Natasha responded dryly. "One hundred forty-nine. Zero," she repeated.

"No," Clint insisted. "No, Nat, listen to me. Tomorrow morning it will be one hundred fifty. Your number will be one hundred fifty, I promise. All we need to do is find a way to escape. We can do this. We can get out of here. Together. Nobody will touch you."

Natasha shook her head. "It's always the same," she whispered. "Always the same. They want to break me. They will break me, this time they will break me," she murmured.

"No, they won't. We don't know what they want from us, okay? You need to stay focused, Romanoff. Okay? Stay with me."

Natasha continued to repeat her numbers and tug at the chain.

"Natasha, you need to sit still. You'll hurt yourself. Please, listen to me. We need to—"

"You said it would be different!" Natasha suddenly scowled.

"What?"

"You said it would be different," Natasha repeated. "That I would be protected by SHIELD. No more torture. No more corporal punishment. No more sex in order to obtain information or to stay alive."

Clint remained silent.

"Did you lie to me, Clint Barton?" Natasha prodded. "Did you? Because I have been kidnapped, SHIELD is compromised and I'll have to throw one hundred and forty-nine days out of the window. This was something I was prepared for working for the KGB. But what do you always say to me? _It's not Russia._ "

Clint shook his head. "I didn't intend to lie to you, Nat. But you must have been aware of the risks. KGB or SHIELD, you are still an assassin. So if you could just focus for a moment, we could work out a plan. You need to focus."

"Why? Where can I go if we do escape? Find another secret organisation in need of a star murderer? Find someone else to put my trust in so they can abuse it?"

Clint narrowed his eyes. "I did not abuse your trust!" But he had. He had agreed to Fury's stupid plan. Natasha would never forgive him for that. "You're my partner. And I will protect you."

They heard footsteps on the corridor. When the sounds were joined by the clinking of keys near the door, Clint lost all hope to go through with the test. Natasha was crumbling before his eyes. Her trembles got so violent she caused new wounds on her wrists, she looked at his face but it was clear she didn't see him anymore and she couldn't stop repeating _zero_.

"Natasha," Clint called softly again and pressed on the panic button. "Nat? It's good. We're good. It's over, see?" He cooed as he opened his handcuffs and got on his knees before her. "See, nothing will happen to you. It's SHIELD. You're with SHIELD. You'll get out of here in a moment, okay?"

In the meantime the door opened and two agents stepped in. One crouched next to Natasha and took her still trembling forearm to stabilise her hands so he could remove the chains. Natasha kicked him in the kneecap with her bare sole and shouted at him. "Don't fucking touch me!"

Clint had serious doubts Natasha understood anything around her anymore. He turned to agent Rendón who cussed softly rubbing his knee. "Give me the key. Wait outside."

When they stayed alone, Clint slowly approached the key to her bounds. "Nat, you need to stay still for a moment. I'm getting these off, okay? They're coming off." He was relieved to see Natasha go rigid while he worked on the lock, making a mental note to find and yell at the agent who thought it was a good idea to bind her like this. She would need medical attention and they should all know by now how hard it was to get her accept medical attention.

"There you go," he smiled carefully helping her lower her hands. "It was just a test, Natasha. All fake. You're good. You're—"

The first punch landed on his jaw. The second one on the pit of his stomach as he fell back with her body on top of his.

"You tricked me!" Natasha growled. Her eyes were cold but Clint could see the shadow of pain there. She seemed actually hurt by his assistance to the test.

"Nat," he murmured. Before she could hit him again, he grabbed her wrists and sat up with her in his lap. "I swear I can explain."

"Don't fucking talk to me," Natasha hissed.

* * *

 **Natasha**

She didn't remember how they got into Nick Fury's office, but here they were, Natasha with bandages on her wrists and in clean clothes and Clint with a remorseful expression on his face.

"Complete failure," Fury said looking up from the report in front of him. "What happened, Romanoff?"

Natasha found it hard to speak. The boss didn't seem particularly angry or frustrated, but Natasha had had multiple trainers and bosses smile at her announcing that she would get punished so it didn't mean anything. Fury got disappointed in her, that was all that mattered. She had one chance and it was gone.

"Sir, I would have been fine. Agent Barton called it off too soon and—"

"Do you think blaming your future partner will help your case here?" Fury growled. Natasha looked at Clint. The bastard had the guts to smirk.

"I got panicked. But that doesn't mean that I would have failed if it hadn't been all fake, sir. I can take anything. I can take torture."

"I know that, Romanoff. I know. But the objective of this test was never to test how much you can take. We wanted to see if you are ready for missions. But you are not. So…"

"No, sir, I am ready. I can show you. You can get me waterboarded right now. Break my bones, take my food away, whatever. I can take it. Please give me another chance. Don't get me executed. Please."

Fury and Clint both stared at her in dumb shock. "Oh fuck," was all Clint mumbled. But Natasha kept her gaze on Fury.

"What are you talking about, Romanoff?" Fury finally asked.

"The E341 protocol?" She started to feel especially stupid under the gaze of the director. "It says the Widow has to be accounted for, right? So if you can't send me on missions, you'll kill me, right?"

Fury looked over Barton. "Yes, I might have mentioned the protocol to her," the archer snapped. "But I didn't tell her she'll get killed."

"I figured that part out," Natasha responded coldly.

"Well, you figured it out wrong, Romanoff. All I wanted to say is that your training cannot be fulfilled yet. We'll have another discussion about it in three or four weeks." Natasha stared at the man.

"You won't execute me for the failure?"

"No. Whether you like it or not, you're the best among the new recruits and already better than many of my agents. You literally need to betray us to get killed by us. You need more training time. That's alright."

Natasha was still dumbfounded when they left Fury's office. "Natasha," Clint called that snapped her back into reality and into her seething anger towards the Favourite Archer.

"You tricked me," she said not looking in his direction. "And you called the test off early."

Clint huffed. "What are you mad for exactly? That I went with it as per my orders or that I didn't go through with it as per my judgement?"

Natasha stopped and turned sharply to face him, the fury in her eyes making him step back. "I want a new partner."

Clint frowned. "What? We haven't even been real partners so far."

"Yeah, because my real partner wouldn't betray my trust like that."

"Well, I tried to tell Fury it was a bad idea, Romanoff. He wanted to see how you react. And let me tell you, your reaction—"

He stopped when Natasha threw a punch at him, one he could only block when her fist already reached his chin.

"Don't," was all she said as she pulled her hand out of his grip. She turned on her heel and left without looking at him.

* * *

 **Clint**

After the fight and Natasha's claim about wanting a new partner it was pretty surprising to see her on his bed when he returned from the bathroom wearing only a towel around his waist. She sat with her legs under her and a suspiciously calm expression.

"Are you going to snap my neck?" Clint asked as he stepped closer.

Natasha smiled with a smile that made him uncomfortable. "Haven't decided yet." She beckoned him to get closer. Clint wasn't sure what he was doing, but he knelt on the bed. Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck and lay back, pulling him down with her. "You smell nice."

"I thought you were angry with me."

She kissed him deeply. "Nothing sex can't fix," she murmured against his neck in a way that made him forget about his promise to her about making her wait until the right moment to take her to bed.

He kissed her back and slipped his hand on her breast and then lower, making her moan. He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard the click. Pulling back he looked up seeing that his right hand was cuffed to the bedpost. Natasha smirked and got out of under him, adjusting her t-shirt and leggings.

"Very original," Clint huffed. He didn't like being tricked like this, but it was all the worse in his current excited state. "What is this, your revenge?" Natasha shrugged. "I can just yell and someone will come to get me out."

"Do it. Tell them you lose your mind from a little kissing like some fourteen years old."

Clint sighed and tugged on the chain. "Are you planning to get me out of here some time?"

"Yeah, I'll ask my new partner to pop in and teach you a trick to get them off," Natasha responded. "Goodnight, Hawkeye."

Clint was not impressed with his own skills and with his partner's childish, vengeance seeking tendencies as he tried to find a less uncomfortable position to sleep in.

When he woke up and saw a figure next to his bed, he tugged on the handcuffs so harshly that the clinking of the metal on the iron bedpost was deafening in the silence. He reached for his arrow but a voice stopped him.

"I had a nightmare."

Clint groaned and reached to the bedside lamp, turning it on. Natasha stood there in a new set of pyjamas and she looked downright frightened. He had seen this look on her more than he liked, but on the other hand it was good to know she came to him, even after today's debacle.

"Why don't you go find your new partner then?" He grumbled. It was not something he could forget easily, even though she couldn't possibly mean that. She didn't trust anyone else enough to pair up with, he was certain of that.

"Clint." Natasha stood immobile and he didn't make any move either, waiting. "Clint, please," she finally said through gritted teeth.

Clint shifted a little on the bed and pulled the blanket aside to give her space. She climbed into the bed and curled up against him, pulling the sheets over them both. Clint rested his left hand over her stomach. He left the lamp on.

"Natasha?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you…" His right arm was positively going stiff.

"No. Serves you right." He could hear the smile in her tone. It made him smile too.

"What did you dream about?" She didn't respond but he could feel her body go rigid against his. "Nat, what is your number today?" He asked.

Natasha waited some moments before answering. "One hundred forty-nine."

"Now tell me what it will be tomorrow morning."

"One hundred fifty."

Clint smiled. "That's right. One hundred fifty."

He closed his eyes, his nostrils getting full of the smell of her hair as he was spooning her.

"Thank you," she suddenly mumbled.

Clint pulled Natasha closer. Not out of lust, even though God knew he wanted her. It ran deeper than lust, it was the desire to protect her even from her own dreams. "We good?"

She cuddled closer into his warmth. "We're good."

"Will you…"

"No. Goodnight, Barton."


	5. Rule 5: Patience is key to build trust

**Hey Everyone! Thank you for the lovely reviews and the interest in the story!** **In this one Clint and Natasha are getting closer, but still not close enough.**

* * *

 **Rule #5: Patience is key to build trust**

 **Clint**

Natasha had a sweet tooth.

Clint was stunned by the discovery. He found it out accidentally. It was almost midnight when he knocked on her door and entered her room after a long and exhausting day. He had to train four trainees and she spent the bigger part of the day reading up on some company policies after Fury realised she had skipped most of them for the last month. _There are lots of books to read for a company that doesn't even exist, sir._ Fury let her go with a warning. Clint knew the director hated paperwork just as much.

But they talked every day. It was a tradition. If they couldn't get to it until after dinner, they had a shower, relaxed for a bit and had a chat, mostly in Natasha's room. Her room was for conversations while his was for sleeping. She still came over to sleep in his bed whenever she had a nightmare. Or, he suspected, whenever she was bored or simply couldn't sleep.

"You won't believe th—" He stopped in his tracks seeing Natasha on her bed reading one of his books that he was sure he had seen on his own shelf just an hour ago and eating a bar of Snickers with more than one empty chocolate wrappers of various brands on the bed.

Clint smiled widely. "My my, Romanoff. Are you on a special assassin diet or something?"

Natasha rolled her eyes with a smirk. "You can have a single Twix if you stop teasing me about it. I know that look, Barton."

"I'd rather tease you about it. I'm more of a sour-candy-type of guy."

And so he did. He teased her about it and when he knew she was upset, she sometimes found a chocolate bar on her bedside table, and once, after they had a nasty argument, seven baklavas and a note that read: _That was all the deli had. I bet you won't be able to eat it all. Can I check after dinner if you are?_ Natasha skipped dinner, ate them all and didn't send Clint out of her room when he came to see her that night.

From that time it was an ongoing game between them. Clint tried to dig up the most unbearably sweet desserts and sweets and watched in fascination as Natasha ate them all and then threatened him that she would set his bow on fire if he told anyone about it.

* * *

 **Natasha**

Clint smoked.

He insisted he did not. Natasha asked about it when she found a cigarette butt on the windowsill in his room. Then once when she slipped into his bed and could smell it on his shirt. But he denied it. _I'm a spy, Nat. I have countless occasions to get myself killed. Why would I wish to add to them?_

He couldn't deny it further when she found him with a cigarette on the roof. He sat on the railing, his legs dangling above the city and he smoked.

"How is driving yourself closer to death going?" She asked shuffling her feet loud enough so he would notice her presence and wouldn't make any sudden and possibly fatal movement when she spoke. She felt rather amazing knowing that she found his own sweet tooth.

Clint exhaled the smoke before responding. "You gotta die some day, right?"

"Given your job I don't think you need extra help for that," Natasha smirked. She stretched her arm and Clint handed the cigarette over. She took a drag before handing it back.

"Why, that seemed professional," Clint remarked.

Natasha shrugged. "You still don't know anything about me, huh?"

Clint smirked. "I know you will keep this a secret. The doc probably suspects it as he always asks about it during checkups, but I don't budge."

"Bored of the how-can-you-do-this-to-your-health speeches?"

"It's more about having one harmful habit they cannot break. Nice to feel a little in control, you know?"

Natasha smiled and reached for the cigarette again. "I know exactly what you mean."

* * *

 **Clint**

The shooting range was a type of sanctuary to him. He trained there at least two or three hours per day. Even on the weekends. It was reasonable to ask why he was there so much. He always did roughly the same thing. Draw the bow, aim, hit the bull's-eye. Repeat a hundred times.

The monotony of it helped him relax and even turn off a little. He sometimes got new arrows from SHIELD's engineers and scientists. He was the Favourite Archer so he got to play with their new toys first. Sometimes he tried out new targets as well. But after three years with SHIELD nothing seemed to be able to challenge him on the range.

But today was different. It was around 9:20am and Natasha had nothing to do waiting for her morning training. She wore one of his shirts, a black sleeveless one with a white hawk on it, that looked loose and comfortable on her and grey yoga pants. Her hair was put up in a pony tail, revealing the porcelain skin on her neck. "Guess who has forty minutes before the training with Marshall," she grinned sitting on the ground casually crossing her legs under her.

"You want to be prepared then," Clint replied hitting the target again. "Marshall is a tough one. He had a blast in Afghanistan."

Natasha shrugged. "I am always prepared, Barton." She watched him shoot the arrows one after another for some minutes before talking again. "You never miss?"

"Never," he confirmed. He glanced at her just in time to see the mischievous smirk on her lips.

In the next moment Natasha was standing next to him with one hand on his shoulder. "Even if you are getting distracted?"

Clint smirked shooting the next arrow right among the others. "That's my job, Romanoff." He said. He pressed a kiss on her hand before moving forward. He walked up to the target and removed the arrows, putting them back in his quiver. He had to do that quite often during his practice.

When he turned to walk back to his spot, he saw Natasha had let her hair loose and knotted his shirt in a way that it revealed the lower part of her taut stomach. His mouth went dry, but he quickly gained back his composure. "Will you go full Widow on me?" He asked rather amusedly.

"Is it working?" She asked with an innocent smile.

Clint occupied his previous spot. "No."

"Right." Natasha didn't believe him, but let it pass. It was her usual tactic. She had always been good at detecting his lies but kept getting better. Still, she never called him out on it. Clint would bet she remembered each of his lies though and stored them to use them at the right moment.

When he lifted the bow, Natasha sneaked her hand on his neck and brushed her fingertips on his nape, then curled her fingers in his hair. Clint took a fracture of a second longer to aim but he hit the center. "You'll have to up that game, sweetheart," he smirked.

Natasha was clearly not one to turn down a challenge. In three shots she leaned even closer and he felt her breath on his neck and ear. He shot again and then he felt her teeth graze his earlobe.

It was four weeks after Natasha's failed exam. Clint was glad and even proud to say that they were on a steady way to trust each other with their life which would be useful once they were sent on missions.

They fell into a rhythm of talking every day, both sleeping in Clint's bed at least three or four times a week and teasing each other mercilessly about the sweet tooth and smoking and every little quirk they learned about the other. It was nice and cosy.

What was not too nice however was the constant sexual tension between them. It was sometimes just barely vibrating there and sometimes they simply jumped on each other and started snogging. Kisses, both light and heavy ones, were almost normal for them at this point. But they still didn't have sex. Mostly it was on Clint. He was aware that Natasha would be into it and he was too. They both knew that. It wasn't easy to hide his erection every morning they woke up together. And sometimes when he pulled back after a heavy make out session, his hand lingered on her breast just some moments too long.

Clint sometimes wasn't sure why he did it. It made both of them frustrated and sometimes miserable. He knew he wanted to make it good, to make it so good she would forget about each and every previous man that managed to get her body. It was just that he wanted to get her soul too. Even if it was getting painful.

And Natasha Romanoff nibbling on his ear was making it _very_ painful.

* * *

 **Natasha**

He hit the bull's eye. _Damnit._

"Look at you, Hawkeye. If I didn't know you any better, I would think you don't even want me."

Clint smirked, the cocky bastard. "As I said, this is my job."

"Right. Let's spice your job up a little then, hmm?" She smiled. She made her way to the target with him and grabbed a piece of red chalk from a box on the table that was placed next to every stand on the range. After he removed the arrows, she drew a huge X on it crossing in the middle. The line of the chalk was barely bolder than the spot the arrowheads covered.

Clint seemed amused. "Finally, it's getting interesting," he chuckled.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "One in every ring on the line. You think you can manage?"

"Obviously. So what will you get me if I score?"

"You never miss, do you? The question should be, what will _you_ get me if you do?"

Clint grinned. "The biggest jar of Nutella I can find."

Natasha nodded and stretched her arm shaking his when he accepted it.

She started with the ear nibbling again. When he finished with the first line of the X, she sneaked her palm under his shirt and placed it on his stomach hissing slightly as she felt the hard muscles under the sweaty skin. Clint hit the red line perfectly in the largest ring.

"God," Natasha panted into his ear, her voice hoarse and desperate, "I want you so fucking bad."

Natasha was the best when it came to gentle whispers, wanton sighs and sweet cooing. She had had to sleep with exactly 72 men and 18 women during her years in the Red Room and with KGB, and those were only the official numbers. She had had a lot of possibilities to learn how to place a shaky breath in the right place. But this time there was another layer to all of it: honesty. That was the truth. She wanted him so fucking bad.

She could swear his arms shook a little. Then he released the string and the last arrow hit the yellow center of the target.

Natasha rested her chin on his shoulder and her fingers now slid downwards on the trail of hair of his lower abdomen. When Clint turned his head to look at her, their noses touched. "I think you missed," she smirked.

"Bullshit," Clint countered.

Natasha kissed his lips softly, her hands slipping into the back of his hair. "Let's check it out then," she suggested.

They walked up to the target that now had a perfect X lined up of arrows. Natasha looked at the arrow in the center for some moments. "You missed," she repeated the verdict.

"No, I did not," Clint protested.

"Look at it. It's off the line."

Clint observed the arrow carefully. The head landed where the two lines met but one could argue the tip of the arrow reached into the yellow of the center. "It is perfectly in the center."

"You missed, Barton. Just admit it. No shame in that," Natasha teased.

"I did not," Clint repeated stubbornly.

"It's okay, that's what pent up sexual frustration does to archers, or so I hear," she smirked. "You know—" Her sentence was cut short as he used the pent up sexual frustration to kiss her and push her up against the target.

* * *

 **Clint**

Natasha moaned softly and hooked her legs around his waist chuckling as she saw he still held on his bow.

The kisses became more heated and soon Clint's bow was placed on the table along with his shirt and they were laying down in the sand. Natasha slid her lips down on his naked chest. "Will you just stop with this madness?" She murmured against his skin. "See, it affects your shooting skills."

"That hit was perfect," Clint whispered. His fingers slipped into her hair and pushed her downwards as her slow pace was driving him mad.

"Agent Romanoff?" A tall man in sweatpants and a white shirt that let his bulging chest muscles be seen asked. "I wasn't aware you chose another type of training for today."

Natasha pulled back and Clint propped up on his elbows. "Marshall, you never knew when to make an entrance."

The man smiled. "Sorry, man."

Natasha and Clint added the "Nutella question" to the list of their constant argument topics.

* * *

Everyone seemed to know something was up with Hawkeye and Black Widow but nobody said anything about it. Not even Fury. Clint knew relationships between spies were not encouraged and so he expected some kind of reprimand for whatever it was between him and agent Romanoff after Marshall found them on the range but it never came. Well, he would just enjoy it while it lasted.

After the incident they fell back into the usual rhythm. Kissing, talking, sparring together, sleeping together. But no sex.

Natasha cleared her exam in two weeks. After the fiasco with the kidnapping, Fury decided she would need to show her skills at shooting, hand-to-hand combat, endurance and diplomacy. But he made her take the exam the whole day. Twelve hours of fighting, running, shooting, hostage negotiation situations in different languages, and suspiciously few questions regarding SHIELD policies.

That night Clint knocked on her door after dinner and dropped a box on her lap. It was full of homemade macarons from a French confectionary. Clint found them unbearably sweet but he knew Natasha loved them.

"Congratulations, agent. You were amazing, or so I hear." He sat down next to her and pulled her legs on his lap, pressing his fingers in her tight sole.

Natasha groaned in pleasure wriggling her toes. "Fury threatened he would send us on a mission soon," she said opening the box and grinning. She bit into a macaron and held it up to his lips but he just shook his head.

"First I'll take you to that Chinese restaurant I told you about. As I promised."

"Or you could just, you know, give me a celebratory orgasm."

Clint chuckled and playfully pinched her thigh. "Only one?"

"I don't want to pressure you."

Clint grinned. "Not yet, Romanoff. But I won't stop at one when it comes to that, don't worry."

"You're all talks, Barton," Natasha remarked.

* * *

In two days Natasha appeared in his room around midnight. Clint rolled over, let her crawl under the blanket and cuddled her from behind placing his hand on her belly. He had a long day so he didn't ask what the dream was about. She never answered that question anyway.

"Clint?" She mumbled.

"Hmm?"

"I didn't have a nightmare."

Clint opened his eyes. With one swift movement he turned her on her back and in the next moment she was trapped under him. He pinned her hands to the bed above her head. He liked the way she looked in this position. "No?" He asked.

"No," she confirmed. "I just thought it was time, you know? Russian women tend to get impatient and I've been waiting for months."

"Right," Clint murmured kissing her. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was time. There was no sense in making her wait more. In the end he would just screw it up by being too excited and embarrass himself finishing just by seeing her naked. Yes. It was time. "Right," he repeated to himself.

He leaned forward to kiss her neck when his cellphone started to ring. The ringtone made it clear it was Fury. And he needed to pick up for Fury. He tapped on _Answer_ and put it on speaker. "Sir?"

"Barton, I need you to be ready in an hour. You're off to a mission in Paris. I suppose you can tell Romanoff the same?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. The plane departs at 1am. You'll get more info onboard."

"Yes sir."

Clint put the phone back on the bedside and sat up, letting Natasha's hands go. "Spy luck, huh?"

"Tell me about it," Natasha huffed.


	6. Rule 6: Respect partner's feelings

**Hi Everyone! In this one Nat and Clint go on a mission in Paris. Something goes wrong. (It contains slight mentions/intentions of rape.) Enjoy :)**

* * *

 **Rule#6: Respect partner's feelings**

 **Clint**

"Paris, the city of love," Clint remarked as he stopped the Lexus in front of Four Seasons. The target, an American businessman who sold just a little too many weapons to a Russian terrorist group, happened to stay there. So now Natasha posed as a rich Russian woman with too much money and time on her hands and Clint was her driver and butler. Fury had a hard time signing the papers as their mission would cost a lot with the expensive car and hotel, but at least it would only take two days.

"Once I strangled a man in the Opera," Natasha remarked.

Clint clicked his tongue as he got out of the car and opened the door for her. "You have to go and ruin the mood, huh?"

"The mood?" Natasha asked putting on a charming but little bored smile as they headed to the reception, slipping into her role easily. "Are you going to order champagne and put on some nice music and—"

"Forget it."

The suit had two bedrooms and a huge living area as well. Natasha tipped the porters and in the moment the young boys left, both of them started unpacking their weapons and the files they needed to talk over the mission. Natasha disappeared in the bathroom briefly to get out of her elegant but uncomfortable silk dress returning in a pair of black yoga pants and a red tank top. _No bra,_ Clint briefly noted as she sat on the floor next to him and started flipping through a file.

Natasha smirked as she caught his glance, her own slipping down on the skin his unbuttoned shirt showed. "I thought we should concentrate on the mission."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Clint replied with a shrug.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Right. So let's go over the plan. I meet the target at the bar tonight."

"Yeah. You're rich but not too smart, bored and want some male company."

"And for some reason my driver is not good enough for me," she smirked.

" _Obviously_ you shag your driver too, but you want to spice it up."

"Right. So I get a date for tomorrow."

"And you go on that date. You have fun for an hour or so and then you take him to that alley at rue de Regnier where I can take him out without witnesses."

"To an alley." She sighed in annoyance. "Whose plan is that again? Fury's?"

"Why, what's wrong with it? A shady guy in a shady alley. It's not like he's not used to dark places."

"But there is absolutely no way he would come there with me."

Clint raised his eyebrow. "Oh, I was under the impression you are the Black Widow."

Natasha huffed. "Are you trying to challenge me, Barton?"

"No. I'm saying that you should be able to lure a terrorist into an alley."

She nodded coldly. "That's what I am going to do, Hawkeye. I trust you won't miss a dark figure in a dark alley at night?"

"You're wounding me, sweetheart."

* * *

 **Natasha**

"I hate these heels," she murmured as she entered the bar with Clint in tow. She had had her fair share of jobs in heels, especially when she had been sent out to seduce someone, but she never quite _liked_ them. She considered them part of her Black Widow costume and wasn't happy to be back on stage. But she had to shine and show Fury and mostly Clint that it had been worth saving her.

"I don't see why, ma'am. You look rather ravishing."

Natasha smiled as she scanned the room. The target was sitting at the bar. She turned to Clint and made a gesture for him to leave. Clint looked uneasy but seemingly didn't dare object as he turned and left.

Natasha took a deep breath so the emerald green cocktail dress accentuated her breasts even more as she made her way to the bar. "Bloody Mary, please," she said to the bartender with a thick Russian accent.

"A beautiful woman alone in a bar drinking Bloody Mary. Could it get any more cliché than this?" She heard the soft voice. She smiled as she turned to look at the target.

"Would it help if I had a couple of children and a husband who sleeps around?" She asked.

The man grinned and clinked his own glass against hers. "Only if you are here to sleep around too." Before she could respond he went on. "Who was that man?"

Natasha giggled softly. "Isn't jealousy a little early at this stage? I haven't even finished my drink."

The target smiled. "In this case, let me reserve the right to buy you the next one." He stretched out his hand. "My name's Haydn Parsons." His name was Garth Lamar. "And you are…?"

Natasha squeezed his hand for a moment. "Tatyana Morozova." She took a sip of the cocktail. "He's my driver," she finally admitted making the man smile.

"No children either then?" He asked.

"Well, the night is long, isn't it?" Natasha giggled again.

" _Easy there. Don't take him to the bathroom already,_ " she heard Clint through the comm.

Lamar grinned. "Not long enough."

Natasha concentrated on the man in front of her instead of the other in her ear. "But what about you? I didn't take you for the type that lurks around the bar desperately trying to find someone for the night."

" _Ouch,_ " Clint commented. Natasha gave a cool smile more to her partner than to her mark.

The man laughed softly and stepped closer to Natasha. "Oh my, is that how it looks? I'm actually searching for someone for two nights, so it's totally different," he added with a wink.

Natasha laughed along with him.

" _Son of a bitch._ _That actually worked,_ " Clint commented.

Natasha dropped her clutch and while Lamar bent over to retrieve it, she turned away sipping her drink. "Did you have doubts?" She asked against the glass before thanking the man as he handed the bag back to her, letting her fingers linger on his for a moment too long.

" _Only for a moment,_ " came the answer. " _It sure as hell wouldn't work on me._ " Natasha chuckled at Lamar's comment but it carried a strange edge. That was for Clint only.

* * *

 **Clint**

When he left Natasha, he returned to their suite, grabbed his bow and quiver then headed to the roof. He had checked it out earlier and found a spot that gave a good angle to see the bar below.

He was getting a little bored, he concluded, that was why he started conversing with Natasha. It wasn't quite professional but something about the way she pushed her breasts out and giggled - _giggled!_ \- just rubbed him in the wrong way.

It took Natasha less than twenty minutes to get that date but she stayed ten more for a meaningless chat that Clint commented here and there.

By the time she got back to the room and kicked off her heels, he sat on the couch and watched soccer on the huge flat screen TV.

"Wine?" He asked glancing towards Natasha who took off her stockings by now and placed her knife from the hidden strap on her thigh on the coffee table. "There's rum and whiskey too. Or vodka, if you want to stay in character. And if you ask me nice enough, I might pop in a confectionary and get you something unbearably sweet."

Natasha frowned. "Why are you being so nice?" She asked. She stood in front of him turning her back to him. "Can you help?" She asked indicating the zipper on the dress.

Clint stood up and pulled the zipper down. His calloused fingers brushed against her bare back. "I'm always nice, Romanoff," he pointed out.

"Especially when you're jealous," she countered stepping forward so he had to drop his hand that still lingered on the small of her back.

"What are you even talking about?" Clint asked.

Natasha dropped the dress on the floor next to her bedroom and Clint had to swallow seeing her lingerie-clad figure from behind. Was it absolutely necessary to wear lace?

"All I am saying is that you sounded a little… uneasy about the mission," she said entering the bedroom.

Well, that was true, but Clint was certainly not ready to admit it to her, or himself, for that matter. "I am not uneasy. I was just a little bored and that guy acted so pathetic that I just couldn't hold myself back. Sorry for bothering you during the _mission,_ " he called while Natasha was changing into her pyjamas before returning to the room and flopping down on the couch next to him.

"Wine," she finally answered.

* * *

 **Natasha**

The wine relaxed them both and soon she switched to a channel with an English romantic movie with French subtitles. Natasha rested her head against Clint's shoulder and they shared a fluffy blanket.

Still, the atmosphere wasn't exactly lustful. The intimacy she felt ran deeper than that.

She leaned forward and poured more wine. "I've never done this before," she admitted.

"Never drunk wine?" Clint asked back with a smirk. "Let me tell you, you are a born talent."

Natasha chuckled and slapped his chest with the back of his hand. "No, a movie date."

"We watched movies together."

"But never as a date."

"Why, is this a date now? You should have told me. I'm in sweatpants."

Natasha shook her head. "Forget about it."

Clint's face became serious. "Come on, Nat. Tell me about it."

Natasha shrugged. "I know this is not a date. But it feels like one, you know? Two people who could one day trust each other. Two people who some day might be able to see each other for who they are."

"So you've never been on a movie date."

"I've never been on any kind of date. I mean, as Natasha. I've done it a thousand times as the Widow. I know the tricks, I know how to brush my hand against his in a way that tells him I want him although I never really do. I know when to kiss and when to pull back, when to offer to split the check and when to ask for another glass of wine. But that's part of the job."

"Are you saying you don't know what's a real date is like?"

Natasha was embarrassed. She cleared her throat and shrugged looking back at the screen.

"I don't really know that either," she heard Clint's voice.

Turning back to him she smiled. "Really now? Don't ladies just adore Clint Barton?"

Clint chuckled. "Of course ladies adore Clint Barton. I rarely have problems getting one in my bed. But a date… a real date where I could feel like you just described…" He shrugged. "This might be my very first time too."

Natasha smiled. "Will you be mad if we don't end up in your bed this time?"

Clint shook his head. "It is a date, right? A pseudo-date at least. It's not like I have the right to get mad about how it ends."

"I didn't expect anything else from the Favourite Archer," Natasha mumbled cuddling up next to Clint who started rubbing her back.

"This movie is shit," he remarked after a while making Natasha laugh.

* * *

 **Clint**

The date was going well.

Clint sat on the rooftop of the building across the one in which Natasha pretended to be interested in anything the target said. Clint just listened to the most unnatural giggle he had ever heard from her.

" _Paris is the city of love,_ " she said answering the question about the reason of her vacation.

Clint laughed softly. "Really now? I knew you had a romantic side."

When the dessert arrived, Clint checked his weapons one more time. "Remember, make sure you are not followed. Or I'll have to overwork and we might be late from pickup."

Natasha excused herself to the bathroom after leaving half of the crème brûlée, a great sacrifice for the job, Clint figured.

" _Barton, I got an issue,_ " he heard her mumble in his ear.

"What kind of issue?" He frowned.

" _I think he is suspecting something._ "

"Are you kidding me?"

" _I'm going back to his room with him._ "

Clint felt cold sweat drip on his back. "Negative. That's too big of a risk."

"I _t wasn't a question, Barton._ "

"It sure was as you have no authority to make this decision. Not to mention that it is dangerous and I can't provide you backup fast enough."

There was silence on the other end.

Then, " _if I don't do it, we'll lose the target. Room 314._ "

Clint swore under his breath. "Negative," he repeated. He could hear the irritated sigh on the other end. "Nat, please—"

" _I have to go back to him now,_ " Natasha said. " _I'm armed, Barton. I can handle this._ "

"You have one knife on you."

" _That should suffice._ "

The high end restaurant was fifteen blocks away from the hotel. Clint watched helplessly as the target got in a cab with Natasha. He had his bow and quiver full of arrows on him. He couldn't exactly hail one to follow them. At least the traffic was heavy.

"You got this, Barton," he whispered to himself as he started to jog towards the hotel. Fortunately it was not impossible to run on the rooftops even if he had to shoot too many special arrows for his taste to be able to swing over from one to another.

* * *

 **Natasha**

It was risky, yes. But as they chatted about meaningless things both of them lying with every breath, Natasha saw something in his eyes. They flickered around the room as if he was expecting something. _Perhaps an arrow through his skull_ , she mused. There was no way she could lure him into that alley. He was just too smart or in business for too long.

But if she were to return to his room with him, he might decide she was there for a fun night after all. She needed to convince him that was what she wanted. She needed to go up in that room.

Clint didn't approve of it and she knew Fury would not either. But that was her job, right? Taking risks nobody else would take. That was why she stood out. That was why she was here.

Kissing the man was less repulsive than she had expected. It probably had to do with the fact that she imagined kissing Clint instead.

In some moments the man pulled her on the bed. It was her last chance to finish the mission unless she wanted to wait until after sex, but she really did not wish to touch the target for a moment longer than absolutely necessary.

She straddled Lamar and kissed him again, grabbing the knife from the strap on her thigh in the meantime. But something was not right. When she pressed the knife to the man's neck, she heard a door open and feet shuffle and felt something hard against the back of her head. A gun barrel.

"You wanted to use _this_?" Lamar asked with loathing in his voice as he pushed the knife back.

Natasha felt tugging at her hair but resisted her hiss of pain as the man behind her pulled her off the target and pushed her on the floor. There was another man armed with a gun. Three against one did not seem good, especially without a gun and knowing they would pull the trigger on theirs if she made a movement.

"Drop the knife," Lamar said.

Natasha obliged. The shorter man kicked the knife under the bed.

"KGB? CIA? Who sent you, sweetheart?" Lamar asked.

"Fuck you," Natasha responded losing her Russian accent and earning a generous kick in her stomach. She curled up on the floor and coughed.

Lamar loosened his tie and smirked looking over her figure. "I might as well, sweetheart." He unbuckled his belt. "Then these two gentlemen will too, how about that, hmm? Have a good night before you die, huh?"

"And how do you intend to do that without a real dick on you?" Natasha asked. She wasn't too proud of her quip but that was all she managed.

She wasn't particularly worried about the unwanted sexual encounters. She had had them before after all. She knew how to survive them. She just felt tired, so tired.

Lamar shook his head at the short man who wanted to kick her again. "You'll see," he said.

But she didn't get to see that because in the next moment the window was crushed and Clint landed gracelessly on the floor. Before the bodyguards could react he sent an arrow through the shorter one's eyeball and rolled behind an armchair to dodge the other's bullet.

Natasha got on her knees and yanked the arrow out of the man's skull, then got on her feet locating the target who was now trying to reach the drawer of his bedside where she supposed he had a gun. Natasha was faster than him. The impact of her jump pushed him back on the bed with her straddling him once again. She smiled seductively and slowly pushed the arrow in his neck hitting the artery with surgical precision.

When she turned she saw the taller man leap in her direction but he fell when he got an arrow in the back of his neck.

Clint stood up and shook his arms quickly. "Let's go!" He shouted at her when she didn't move for a moment.

He quickly drew his bow and shot a special arrow with a rope attached to it at the wall of a nearby house. When Natasha stepped closer, he hugged her waist and jumped out of the window.

* * *

Fortunately the rope was long enough so they could land on the street easily. "To the safe house, this way," he indicated a dark alley.

After only ten minutes of running they arrived to a rundown building on the ground floor of which a bakery used to operate. The rooms were now dark but she could see a built-in bar and a landline phone on it.

"Get water from the bathroom," Clint said stepping to the phone.

"Clint…"

"Go."

In the bathroom Natasha found a bucket that she filled with water, a glass and some small towels.

When she returned to the main room, she found Clint sitting on the bar. He had a growing bruise on his jaw and a bleeding cut on his forearm.

Natasha herself didn't look much better. Her stomach hurt, and the landing and running in heels did quite some damage to her ankles.

She placed the bucket on the bar and filled the glass with water, offering it to Clint. He shook his head and washed his face in the bucket. Natasha shrugged and drank.

"There are shoes back there," Clint pointed at a cabinet behind them.

Natasha kicked off her heels and circled with her ankles before checking the shoe collection. She chose a pair of sneakers.

"Evac in fifteen. A helicopter from the roof," Clint added.

Natasha sighed hearing his neutral voice. "Clint."

The man slowly turned to look at her.

"Are you mad?"

"Why would I be mad? You ignored the order, you made a decision by yourself that you were not allowed to make, you almost got raped and killed and possibly tortured, you took action without proper backup. What is there to be mad about?" He huffed.

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Don't give that fucking face to me," Clint snapped.

"He was prepared. He knew what was going on. The plan was worth shit at that point. I had to improvise."

Clint jumped off the bar and stepped closer. "No. You risked too much."

"There is no risking too much in this line of work."

"For fuck's sake, Romanoff, do you have to have the last word every single time?" Clint asked, his voice rough.

Natasha pressed two fingers against her temple and took a deep breath. "I am sorry, Clint. I did ignore the order. But I saw it our only chance to carry out the mission. Which we did. Not as clearly as we could have, but still."

Clint pushed his hand through his hair. He must have picked up on her indifferent tone. "What are you sorry for exactly?" He finally asked.

"For making you worry," Natasha replied not missing a beat.

Clint shook his head incredulously before laughing softly. It sounded sarcastic but not forced. It relaxed Natasha a little.

"That's what you are really mad about, isn't it?" She asked softly. She reached her hand and touched the bruise on his jaw gingerly. He flinched but did not pull back.

"No."

Natasha knew that tone. She called it the _lying voice_. She decided to let it slip as always. "Right."


	7. Rule 7: Live up to your role

**We arrived to Budapest, yay! I decided to cut this mission in (probably) 3 parts, this would be the first one. As I am actually from Budapest, I was trying to make the descriptions as accurate as possible and I also included Hungarian dialogues (with translation). Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Rule #7: Live up to your role**

 **Clint**

"We had to realise that you had not been prepared for the mission in the right way. As in, your role with the company was not clear enough. We have decided that you two, Barton and Romanoff, are going to form our STRIKE Team Delta. That also means you now have a handler. Congratulations."

Fury proceeded to introduce them officially to Philip Coulson, their handler. Clint had met him before as he was responsible for the administration and cleanup of some of his past missions.

Natasha on the other hand was less than impressed because she felt she was not good enough if she had to be supervised.

They fell back into the rhythm they had had before the mission, with the exception that Natasha didn't have to go on trainings anymore. Clint hoped that would leave them with more time to spend together, but she rather used her free time to train a little too much for his taste.

He went to see her one evening ten days after they had gotten back. He wasn't sure how she was so he was armed with a bag of M&M's.

It was obvious something was off because she was in front of a punch bag punching her frustration out.

"Where did you even get that?" Clint asked dropping on the bed. Natasha was sweaty and her skin red of the extortion but she was mesmerising wearing only a black tank top and khaki shorts. He had to swallow seeing the thin line of skin of her waist.

"Borrowed it from the locker next to the gym," Natasha panted in reply.

"So the gym is not enough anymore?"

She stepped back and tucked her hair behind her ear. Even that little movement seemed rather aggressive. "Clint, I can't do this. What do we need a fucking handler for?"

Although it kept happening ever since their little adventure in Canada, Clint always felt a pool of heat in his stomach when she talked to him so openly. It was stupid, he knew it, but still, the fact that a Russian master assassin - and Natasha Romanoff, his partner - deemed him trustworthy made him proud. And happy, perhaps too happy given their (current) professional relationship.

He held up the sweets and Natasha shook her head to herself with a smirk before sitting on the bed and pulling the bag out of his hand.

"So, what happened?"

"He came to see me train."

Clint hummed. "And?"

Natasha frowned. "He came with a fucking notepad, Barton. I can't train now without being evaluated, is that so? America, the Land of Freedom, right?"

Clint sighed. He knew by now that Natasha had a particular relationship with both Russia and the United States. He had told her repeatedly that she was now in the latter, but it seemed she never understood what he meant. She thought of America as the door to total independence and carefreeness without acknowledging the fact that she still worked for a spy organisation that had rules. Strict ones.

"Nat, what is really your problem? Phil's a nice guy and—"

" _Phil,_ huh?" She huffed.

He shrugged a little guiltily. "Look, I get it, you hate being monitored. Everyone does. But Phil… Coulson is not here to expose your mistakes and get you punished. He is here to make sure we get our missions done alright."

Natasha seemed to doubt that as she was chewing on the sweets. "You sure?"

Clint nodded. "You are an asset to SHIELD. You have a handler to bring out your full potential." He leaned forward, kissed her bare shoulder, then he popped an M&M in his mouth and stood up. "Now you'll have a shower and I'll take this back," he said pointing at the punch bag. "Then we are going to watch a movie."

"Thank you," Natasha smiled.

* * *

 **Natasha**

The unavoidable first official meeting with Phil Coulson (apart from the introduction after the Paris mission) happened at the briefing of their next mission. Fury was present too which relaxed Natasha a little.

"Budapest," Coulson said. "Agent Romanoff, as per your file, you have been there before during your time with…"

"KGB," Natasha cut him off. "Yes."

"You also speak Hungarian."

" _Igen_ (Yes)," Natasha responded in Hungarian.

"Great," Coulson nodded. "We'll need you to speak it with a Russian accent."

The request was not provocation per se. If it had come from Fury, Natasha would have just nodded. But from their _handler_ it sounded like something entirely different. Condescendence.

"My Hungarian accent is indistinguishable from the native speakers', sir," she bit out. "Just like in any other languages I speak, including English. There is absolutely no need to—" she stopped when she felt Clint's hand squeeze her wrist for a moment. The other two men saw it as well but pretended they didn't.

"I know," Coulson replied visibly unfazed by her outburst. "But your target has good relationships with Russian criminals, and it is probable she will trust you more if you pose as the daughter of a Russian woman and a Hungarian man." Coulson placed a file in front of her and another in front of Clint.

"Darai Elizaveta," he said pointing at the name on her file. "Liza for short."

"Married?" Natasha frowned reading further.

"You came to the States where you met your current husband. An American."

"Jade Lovell," Clint said with a grimace. It did sound strange but he didn't comment on it. Natasha wondered if he wanted to restore the decorum she just broke.

A gang started spreading contaminated heroin and other drugs. That alone was not of SHIELD's concern. But it seemed people who used them kept disappearing in the city, among them many American tourists and four members of STRIKE Team Romeo. The suspicion the analyst team came up with was secret human experiments, but they didn't have any specifics on that.

Clint and Natasha were to pose as a married couple. Natasha would have a bartender job at one of the boss' pubs, while Clint was a writer which left him a lot of time to "work from home" so he was free to move around.

They also had a contact, a Hungarian dealer going by the name _Tinta_ (Ink) who was to pass some of the drugs to them so they had samples, and he also had information on the gang's activity, but they didn't know how willing he was to share that.

"He probably thinks you're CIA. I just want to make sure you know it is not your task to correct him," Coulson said which only served to fuel Natasha's fury. How dare he? They weren't some kids playing cops and robbers. But when she opened her mouth, Clint placed his hand on her thigh.

* * *

She waited until the end of the briefing to confront him on the corridor. "So whose side are you on?"

Clint frowned. "Reason's," he finally said. "Give him a break, Nat. I understand you have problems with authority, but this is our job. You must be familiar with not agreeing with everything about a mission?"

That made Natasha think. He was right. This was not about their handler or her preferences. She was a professional. It was time to act like one.

"You're right, darling. I can't wait to finally be your wife," she chirped with a sickly sweet smile.

"Likewise, honey," Clint chuckled. "It'll be one hell of a wedding night."

"Don't stress about it though. Many guys just overthink it and in the end—" Natasha couldn't finish because Clint swiftly placed his palm over her mouth.

"Have a little trust in your fiancé, will you?" He smirked.

Natasha hoped she didn't look as flustered as she felt. Ever since they had gotten back from Paris, they avoided the topic of intimacy. Natasha worked out and trained constantly, Clint spent his days at the shooting range. They still had a little chat in the evening but Natasha didn't sleep in his bed anymore. She felt she needed to concentrate on the job and Clint seemed to agree. It was simpler this way. A lot less fun but clear and simple. It appeared with the new mission it was bound to change.

* * *

 **Clint**

He had been to a lot of European cities, but it was his first time in Budapest. He decided to go with the _modern writer_ look, so he packed a lot of checked and plain button-down shirts, fake glasses, messenger bags and decided to pop in a drugstore and buy an unhealthy amount of hair gel as well.

Natasha looked amazing in her white floral dress and black sandals (typical wear for Elizaveta) as they walked towards their rented apartment in the city centre, holding hands. Their luggage was already there, courtesy of Coulson who already seemed to be much more in control than the agents who had organised their Paris mission.

Their apartment was a couple of streets away from the pub Natasha was to work in, at least Tinta had stated he would be able to get the job for her. Their apartment was in a courtyard apartment building which Clint found fascinating. As they entered they could see a courtyard and apartments five floors above, with a walkway around every floor. There was plenty or air and light inside. Their apartment was on the fourth floor, at number seven.

The apartment was not too big, but it was enough for the job, Clint decided. It had a bedroom, a living room, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom with a tub. There was no dining table, but they just moved in so they could sell the image as the newlyweds who didn't have enough money to furnish the whole place.

Natasha disappeared to the bathroom and he smoked a cigarette on the walkway before heading inside to unpack.

"What do you think?" Natasha asked from the doorstep of the bedroom while he was sorting through his weapons spread on the bed.

"It's not so big and I don't like sleeping on the couch but—" he started, his ramble effectively silenced by her appearance when he looked up.

Her beautiful shoulder-length dark red hair was gone. She had strawberry blonde curls now that reached her neck.

"Did you just do that?" Clint asked incredulously. "Cut it too?"

Natasha nodded a little tense. "What do you think?" She repeated.

Clint swiftly replied sensing her uncertainty. "I love it."

"Do you?" She asked with a smirk.

Clint stood and took a step closer. "Oh yeah, sweetheart. I have the hottest wife," he smiled. Natasha didn't step back so he could tangle his fingers in her hair carefully pulling her closer until their lips met.

The kiss was sweet and shallow but Clint realised it had the chance to get more serious, so he pulled Natasha closer and deepened it suddenly regretting having placed his weapons on the bed.

But right when he grabbed her thighs and lifted her to check if the couch would be a reasonable alternative, the doorbell rang.

Clint groaned as he put Natasha down and pulled back. "I hope it is not your lover," he remarked as she went to the door with an eye roll.

"Why, you think I don't get enough sex?" She asked back before opening the door.

Clint stepped next to her and sneaked an arm on her waist.

* * *

 **Natasha**

" _Sziasztok, láttuk a teherautót két napja, gondoltuk, hogy beköszönünk_ (Hey, we saw the truck two days ago and just wanted to say hi)." The two men at their doorstep seemed to be in their late twenties and in love.

Natasha was supremely upset over the ruined moment with Clint but she smiled widely. " _Sziasztok_ (Hey)," she said carefully pushing her Russian accent in the words, " _Köszönjük_. _Elizaveta vagyok, de hívjatok csak Lizának. Ő itt a férjem, Jade. Még nem beszél magyarul._ (Thank you. I'm Elizaveta, but call me Liza. He's my husband, Jade. He doesn't speak Hungarian yet)".

Fortunately it was not an issue for the two men who switched to English right away. They introduced themselves (Róbert and Péter), shook their hands and wished them a nice time in Budapest.

After a couple of minutes of chat, during which Clint (or Jade) slipped his hand on her behind, Natasha excused them as they needed to unpack. She sighed as she closed the door.

"What, was it so hard to play my wife?" Clint asked with a smirk.

"What, you needed a mission in Eastern Europe to touch my ass?" She asked back with a smile.

"I believe Hungarians would prefer _Central_ Europe, baby," Clint replied heading back to the bedroom.

 _And there goes the moment,_ Natasha thought as she went to the kitchen to look for a snack.

She had to admit she praised Coulson this one time. The fridge was crammed with food and so were the cupboards.

* * *

 **Clint**

Tinta was a short little man with tattoo sleeves on both arms ("hence the name, _cica_ (kitten)," he explained), an almost comically big ring in his left earlobe and blond shoulder-length hair that he wore in a ponytail. He wore sunglasses even though they met in a smoky pub at 9pm and his fingers kept tapping on the table.

"I'll take you in, _cica_. No problem. Not an issue. I just mention your name to the boss and you're in," he said nursing his third beer.

"And by _the boss_ you mean…?" Clint asked. Perhaps he was a little too much in role because his arm was draped around Natasha's shoulders and he was considering to punch that stupid _cica_ nickname out of the dealer. To his pleasant surprise, Natasha did not make any move to remove his arm or get some space from him as their sides were pressed together.

"I thought you CIA folks know everything," Tinta replied.

The spies didn't react. It was not important what Tinta thought about them. It wasn't clear either if he believed they were a real couple, but Clint hoped he didn't because he kept ogling Natasha when he thought she didn't notice. So he either thought it was part of their camouflage (which was correct), or Clint (or Jade) was simply not enough to scare him off. That possibility hurt Clint's ego a little too much but he tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

"I thought we are the ones asking questions," Clint replied dryly.

"I mean the lady boss," he said after chugging the beer and wiping his mouth off with his palm.

"Drop us a name, dude," Natasha prodded.

"Well, if you ask me so nice, _cica_ ," Tinta shrugged. "Her name is Sáfrány Rebeka."

Tinta talked a bit more about the ruin pub where Natasha would work if everything went well, the _Spicces Hörcsög_ (Tipsy Hamster), asked her if she wanted a private city tour (she did not), and passed them a little plastic bag with white powder. "We don't know which portion is dirty," he explained. "So you gotta be careful. But if you wanna relax, I have clean stuff, good stuff. Just call and I'll get you a discount."

* * *

"Should we trust him?" Clint asked when they returned to the apartment. He pulled out clean sheets, a blanket and a pillow from the closet in the bedroom and headed to the couch in the living room.

"No," Natasha replied from the bathroom. She was removing her makeup. "And just for the record, in this profession you shouldn't ever trust anyone," she added.

"You know what I mean. Will he betray us?"

"Possibly."

"Can I kill him if he does?"

"After he talked to my tits for like an hour? I highly doubt you could offer me anything to pass up that murder," Natasha chuckled.

Clint was already in long pyjama pants as he walked to the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe. "Nothing comes to mind?" He asked in a rather hoarse tone.

Natasha turned in his direction from the sink that was by the door and slapped his chest lightly. "Fucking Casanova you are, huh?"

"I have my moments," Clint smiled.

The couch was comfortable which he was definitely grateful for. It was easy to fall asleep after the long plane ride and the exhausting day.

* * *

He woke up to the sound of an old rock and roll track and the smell of bacon. He stood and stretched his back and arms before walking into the kitchen.

Natasha stood by the stove in her pyjamas, black shorts that barely reached under her behind and a pink tank top, beating eggs for breakfast, listening to the radio that Clint hadn't noticed yesterday, singing and dancing. Or at least she bobbed her head to the rhythm and swayed her hips.

"Almost done, darling," she called without turning around. Of course she had heard him through the music, the noises she made while cooking and her own singing.

"You're the best wife," Clint remarked as he headed to the coffee pot smiling as he saw she had already brewed a portion.

"When did you get up?" He asked glancing at the clock. It was 8:02am. They had to wait for Tinta's news about the employment today and meet up a SHIELD agent to hand over the heroin sample too, but only in the afternoon.

"In half an hour."

Clint poured coffee in a mug and leaned against the counter, watching Natasha stomp her bare foot to the rhythm. "Do you dance?" He asked.

Natasha turned to face him. Now he could see that the tank top had a drawing of a donut on her belly. _What a fitting wear for a master assassin._

"Of course I do. I was trained to."

"No. Do you ever dance because you want to?"

Natasha frowned. "No. I don't think so."

"You should. I bet you have talent at it."

"Of course I do," she repeated. "That is my job. To be good at it. Once I killed a man while waltzing. Never missed a step."

Clint shook his head. "Let's not talk about work for a second."

"What is this, Clint? Therapy?" Natasha asked amusedly flipping the bacon.

"Conversation," he shrugged. He placed the mug next to the pot and stepped behind her, sneaking his arms around her waist.

"Find a better topic then," Natasha grumbled.

He pulled the the bacon off the stove and turned her around. "Let's dance," he suggested.

"I don't want to dance," Natasha squeaked not really angrily as he twirled her and she threw her arms around his neck in surrender.

Clint was not a bad dancer himself but it was clear Natasha had years of dancing lessons behind her. She laughed and gasped in surprise by his sudden movements but seemed to enjoy herself as Clint directed them into the bedroom.

"No, wait, we're gonna—" she started but it was too late. Clint tripped in the leg of the coffee table and fell on the mush rug, pulling her with him.

Natasha couldn't stop giggling. It was easy for her, Clint's body had prevented hers to take the fall hard but his back throbbed by the impact.

" _Hawkeye_ , huh?" Natasha teased.

Clint huffed. "You distracted me."

"Did I?"

"Yeah."

"Did I really?" She asked again leaning in so close to his lips that he felt her breath.

"Yes," he insisted.

"Can I kiss it better for you?" She asked, her lips brushing over his jaw.

"Please."

And she did.

First Clint prayed to any god he might or might not have ever heard of that nobody knock on their door or call them on the phone. But then Natasha was naked in front of him tugging on his pyjama pants and nibbling on his abdomen and he forgot about everything that wasn't the two of them.

* * *

 **I also wanted to add that Hungarian people use family name first and given name second, so I use them like this (meaning Darai and Sáfrány are family names).**


	8. Rule 8: Stay professional

**Thank you for staying with the story and sorry for the late update! Clint and Nat are still in Budapest and have a long long argument on semantics.**

* * *

 **Rule #8: Stay professional**

 **Natasha**

"How did we get together?" Clint asked as they lay in bed, his head resting on her belly and she absentmindedly stroked his hair. It was in the morning two days after their first sexual encounter. They still had an hour before Natasha had to get up to go to work.

"What?"

"I mean, Jade and Liza. What's their story?"

Natasha thought for a moment. "At a book signing. I read your book and wanted to have it signed. You saw me and asked for a date right there and then."

Clint chuckled. "No way. Jade is classier than that."

"Fine. You signed my book and when I got home and opened it, I saw it said 'you're hot, can we fuck please? Jade Lovell'. How does it sound?"

Clint grinned and slipped his hand between Natasha's legs that made her tremble slightly before she slapped it away.

"I am sure you can make up a more romantic one, sweetheart," he remarked.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "What are you up to, Clint?"

Clint looked up at her innocently. "You mean with that?" He asked already slipping his hand back between her thighs and hissed when she pressed them together squeezing his hand. "Ouch." Natasha relaxed her legs but Clint didn't remove his hand. _Bastard._ "I just thought we could use this one hour we still have for some morning fun."

"No," she shook her head. "I mean with the stories. You have it all figured out, Jade. You know that he was bitten by a dog at the age of eight."

"By a _cat_ , darling. Jade loves dogs. He's wanted to get one for ever but it turns out his wife is afraid of them and it is still an ongoing argument between them, along with—"

"That's what I am talking about," Natasha cut in. "Don't you think you have it figured out a little too detailed?"

"We're on a mission, Romanoff," Clint replied and seemed offended. Or maybe defensive. "I prefer to be prepared. That a problem for you?"

Natasha smirked. "Yeah, sure. So it is not that you use this mission to pretend to have a normal, domestic life that you never really had?"

Clint sat up with a swift movement and turned around to look into her eyes. "Is it your hobby to always slap reality in my face?"

Natasha frowned. "I just… I didn't say it was a problem, it's just a little unusual for a spy is all."

Clint ran his fingers through his hair and got up. "Maybe I am not your average spy," he said as he left towards the kitchen.

Natasha knew he liked to consume an ungodly amount of coffee so she wasn't surprised to hear the coffee machine start up. "Good job, Romanoff," she murmured as she got up too and put a fluffy robe over her naked body. Coulson had a fine taste, she had to admit that. The flat was equipped with practical objects that were of the best quality.

"Clint," she started as she stepped in the kitchen. He stood at the counter and watched the coffee with great concentration. He only wore his underwear and Natasha couldn't help but assess the scars that littered his body. There was a nasty looking one on his ribcage just under his heart. She shivered for a moment imagining a world, her world with Clint no longer in it. The sudden jolt of pain caught her off guard.

He looked over her. "Yes, _dear_?" He asked, the endearment so sarcastic it made Natasha flinch.

She took a deep breath. "Why don't you finish work early today?" She asked. "I could make that pasta you love for dinner."

Clint raised his eyebrow. "Oh really?" He asked with a smirk.

Natasha smiled and walked over, throwing her hands around his neck and kissing his lips briefly. "Just for you, honey."

* * *

Rebeka didn't like Natasha and Natasha couldn't care less. She was there to gather information about the contaminated drug that Rebeka's gang spread and to find out where the missing people might be, not to be friendly with the boss..

It took her three days. Tinta supplied them with more samples and that gave her an idea. Why send them all back to SHIELD when they could use them to see what would happen?

"I've been thinking," she said in the evening. She sat on the couch with Clint, watching a Hungarian series and ate pasta that he had made.

"Dangerous," Clint replied. "About?"

"Our mission? It turns out we are not here to fuck all day."

"We are definitely here to fuck all day."

Natasha smirked. "Well, about our hobby to track down contaminated heroin then."

Clint muted the TV and turned towards her. "Okay. Give me all you got," he nodded.

"Well. We have three portions of heroin, right?"

"Right. We should just have a nice party and forget about the world for a night?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Barton, you are not taking me seriously. I wanted to say that we should use the samples to set up a trap."

"What kind of trap?"

"There are some regulars in the _Hörcsög_ that nobody cares about. They have no family, friends, anything."

Clint's face darkened. "You want to give them contaminated drug?"

She could see he was not impressed by her idea. She shrugged as if it was a fleeting thought. "We could see what happens."

His lips stretched into a grimace.

She started backing off. "Or just search for some homeless guys. They would surely not be missed and—"

"…and why not put their lives on the line so we could win two days of vacation for wrapping up the mission earlier, huh?" Clint cut in.

Natasha shrugged defensively. "We could rent a hotel room in Vienna," she explained. "You said it would be nice to have some days off together, didn't you?"

Clint got on his feet and Natasha wondered if he just wanted to get some distance between them. He rubbed his nape and stayed silent.

"It's just an idea, really," she offered when it was clear he didn't like it. But why? It was a decent plan.

Clint had said it himself that he felt restless here in the city without actually having to do something. He was not used to long missions, he was more of the hit-and-run type of spy. Or was he a spy, even? Perhaps he identified more as a sniper, well, not the usual kind. Or perhaps a hitman.

So what was his problem exactly?

"How can you be so fucking Russian?" He suddenly asked.

Natasha was taken aback. "I _am_ Russian, darling. Did you forget that?"

"I did not, unfortunately. But I hope that one day I will. That one day I can," Clint responded.

He watched her for a long moment before shaking his head and heading to the kitchen. Natasha knew why. When he was tense he needed to do something with his hands.

She stood when she heard he started doing the dishes. She leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen and crossed her arms. "Will you just talk to me?" She asked. "What upset you so much? It's just work."

"No," Clint hissed dropping a glass back in the sink. It shattered, the loud noise echoing through her ears while she waited for him to speak.

"They are _people_ , Natasha. These are people. You want to use them as fucking lab rats doing the same thing Rebeka and her gang do."

"Nobody would miss them," Natasha pointed out. She didn't understand his point. "It would save us time, energy, money…"

"I don't care about the fucking money, Romanoff!" Clint yelled at her turning in her direction from the dishes. "This is about civilians. They don't deserve to die just so you can go back to eating your favourite American snacks two weeks earlier."

"I didn't mean that," Natasha said after a long moment of stunned silence. "Clint I just…"

"You're just being a heartless bitch. As per usual."

* * *

 **Clint**

The mug that he saw coming but did not stop crashed into the cupboard near his head and shattered. Clint felt cold coffee on his cheek and neck.

He stared at Natasha letting the coffee drip down his neck and soak his shirt. He wondered if she was just angry and wanted to let off the steam or actually aimed at his head and missed. Natasha was deadly from up close and decent with guns but she still had a lot to learn when it came to aiming to bigger distances.

"Nat—" he started but she grabbed a plate from the counter and threw it at him as well. He caught it this time and dropped it into the sink. "What the fuck are you doing?"

" _A heartless bitch. As per usual_ ," Natasha repeated.

Clint sighed and rubbed his temple. "You can't just throw these people's lives away," he explained slowly.

" _As per usual._ "

"Natasha." She had missed the point completely, Clint decided. "As I said, we have strict policies in place and one of the most important ones is that we can't just put civilian lives on the line for freaky experiments."

"Do you think I am a fucking monster, Barton?"

The question caught him off guard.

"Natasha, it is not about you."

"Why did you turn me then? Why go through all the fucking struggle to bring me to SHIELD, why agree to being my partner if you think of me so low?" She asked.

 _She looks offended_ , Clint thought. "Look," he sighed stepping closer. But Natasha raised both her fists indicating she was more than willing to land a punch on his jaw if he dared come too close.

Clint sighed and stepped back to the sink. "Nat—"

"Even better: why did you fuck me? Do you enjoy feeling generous, Barton? Do you like the saviour role? Poor little Russian spy got a new life, thanks to the archer who was too much of a coward to take out a target."

Clint stared at her in shock. "Coward, huh?" He repeated in disbelief. "I risked everything I had, my bloody life for yours!"

"For a monster's, apparently."

Clint rubbed his nape and shook his head. "Romanoff. Come on. This is not what I meant. You are not a monster." He stepped closer again. "You are not, okay? But you can't treat civilian deaths as casualties. We are here to protect those people."

"I am not here to protect them. I am here to figure out why the drug is dirty."

Clint gritted his teeth. His anger was about to rise again. "Are you now?"

"Yes," Natasha hissed.

"Well, you are not going to figure it out this way."

Natasha looked into his eyes for a long moment and nodded curtly. "Would have been enough if you had told me just that."

"I'm so—" Clint started, but she raised her finger and stopped him.

"I want a new partner."

Clint wasn't really shaken by the exclamation. Natasha had said it before, mostly when she was pissed and wanted to annoy him. There was usually no reason to take it seriously.

So he treated the situation as he always did; he smirked and rolled his eyes at her. "You wouldn't," he said as he reached for her hand.

But Natasha slapped it away and with a quick movement smacked her elbow into his ribcage. " _Don't fucking touch me_ ," she murmured in Russian.

Clint didn't know much Russian but this sentence he had learned quickly. Natasha tended to use it a lot.

He took a deep breath. "Nat…"

Natasha refused to look into his eyes. "Don't, Barton. Just don't." She turned and left the kitchen. Clint followed her out and saw her check her weapons and grabbing a pair of sneakers and her keys.

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving," she responded. "As any heartless bitch would."

"Natasha, don't," Clint called, but in the next moment she was out of the apartment with her shoes in her hand.

Clint could hear Róbert's voice. He supposed the neighbour asked if everything was fine with their favourite married couple.

* * *

 **Natasha**

" _Minden rendben, Liza?_ (Is everything alright, Liza?)" Róbert asked when Natasha rushed to the stairs. He leaned on the banister of the walkway with a cigarette in hand.

" _Persze. Az egyik pultos rosszul lett, át kell vennem a műszakját_ (Sure. A bartender got sick and I have to take over their shift) _,_ " Natasha responded.

She spent the night in a hotel room on the outskirts of the city. First she was determined to forward the bill to Fury. _Director, you don't understand. He called me a heartless bitch._ Yes, she would probably never get that money back.

She decided to get the job done as soon as possible. If they could uncover Rebeka's operations she could go home and request a new partner. A partner who would not pretend to be a friend and get into her bed just to call her a _heartless bitch_ only for not caring enough about civilians.

Natasha was a spy and master assassin. A damn good one. She never killed more than absolutely necessary but she always made sure the job was done. She didn't deserve Clint's scolding over a novel suggestion that was easy and practical. Spies worked like that, easy and practical. If Clint Barton didn't understand that, he wasn't a real spy. Was he?

The next day she started working in the morning. In the evening she went back to the apartment and gave Clint the silent treatment. And the next day, her day off, as well.

Clint seemed to accept his fate as he didn't try to approach her after an incident when he tried to hug her from behind while she was brushing her teeth and she got him in a chokehold. They came to a truce of sorts.

On the third night she walked in after her shift and a meeting with Tinta who had supplied her with new samples, to find Phil Coulson sitting on their couch (and currently Clint's bed).

"What the hell is this?" She asked dropping her bag on the floor.

"Marriage counselling," Clint called from the kitchen. "You want coffee?"

Natasha rubbed her neck. "Yes," she finally called back. It was the least hostile exchange between them for days.

Natasha sat in the armchair in front of Coulson. "I almost forgot we have a handler," she said.

Coulson smirked. "You are not happy to see me."

"Why would I? Just because we have a conflict and agent Barton runs to daddy like a toddler—"

"It was not him," Coulson cut in. Natasha raised her eyebrow. "It was Mr. Szalai," he said. "Róbert. He and Péter are here to make sure things go… smooth."

Natasha frowned. "Are you kidding me?"

"Agent Barton did confirm you've been having an argument. For a while now."

"Three days."

Coulson nodded. "My job is to ensure that my agents do their job correctly."

Natasha bit her lip. " _Your_ agents, is it? Well, _your_ agent insulted me."

Coulson stared at her for so long that her skin started to tingle. "What?" She barked out.

The agent didn't answer until Clint appeared and sat in the other armchair placing two cups of coffee on the table, one for her and one for Coulson. Natasha knew the archer must have had a lot today already.

Natasha wondered why it felt like a real marriage counselling with Clint by her side and Coulson, the concerned dad in front of them.

"I don't really care about why you got in a fight," Coulson started. "I don't care that you had sex."

Natasha resisted the urge to look at Clint. Had he told their handler about the shagging part? That was highly unprofessional. So was having sex, yes, but it still was supposed to be a secret. And now her partner had snitched on her to their handler.

Except Coulson kept talking. "It wasn't that hard of a guess. There is an ongoing bet among trainees about when it would finally happen. You're both good spies, among the best, but you're not exactly stealthy when it comes to you two."

Okay, so it wasn't Clint. _Fine_. But he had still insulted her and she wanted a new partner.

"As I said, you are good. You are both assets to us and you were both trained, well, using a significant amount of SHIELD's and the US government's resources to be able to overcome silly tiffs."

Natasha spoke English on a native level. So she needed a moment to process that Coulson used the word _tiff_ for the crisis that she was going through after finding out that the man who had saved her life and turned her, who had given her a second chance, who had acted like her friend, her only friend in this world no less, thought of her like a _heartless bitch_.

"It is not a tiff, sir," she responded. "it is a conflict that we are not ready to resolve yet. And I don't think we ever will. I want a new—"

"She wants a new partner like every time something happens that she can't handle," Clint cut in.

Before Natasha could turn and land a hit on that masterfully crafted jaw Coulson's voice stopped her.

"Alright. Romanoff, if that's what you want, you'll get a new partner assigned as soon as you are back at HQ."

Natasha stared at the man. Clint too.

"Sir, I think this is absolutely—" Clint started but Coulson raised his palm to stop him.

"I am not sure I care about what you think, Barton. Requesting a new partner is not unusual in this line of work and if it is justified, we are happy to cooperate with our agents." He rubbed his forehead. "Actually this is what we are _supposed_ to do when two agents engage in romantic relationship."

Natasha was sipping the coffee that she now spat on the carpet. Coulson leant over the coffee table to hand her a handkerchief that she accepted and wiped her mouth.

"It was just one time, sir," she said.

"A couple of times," Clint corrected with a smirk that made her want to punch his jaw again.

"And it was strictly physical," Natasha added.

"Right. That is really not on me to judge," Coulson said. "I want you to get this job done. Then we will arrange the new partner for you, Romanoff." He stood up. "Should I be worried about you two continuing to break the company policy?"

"Not a chance, sir," Natasha responded swiftly. " _That_ surely won't happen again in this life."

* * *

In the next two days Natasha put the conflict aside. They worked with Clint as before the _heartless bitch_ incident, and it was pretty effective. They managed to acquire more samples from Tinta as well as getting pieces of gossip and information through Natasha's bartender job and Clint even found a warehouse near the _Hörcsög_ that looked suspicious. They decided he would look into it on the third day.

"Honey, I'm home!" Natasha shouted as she arrived around midnight. It was a habit that not even the incident could break. It was a strangely familiar and cosy feeling to give Clint a pet name and Natasha knew Clint liked it as well.

The apartment was dark and suspiciously quiet. Clint was not a fan of going to sleep early.

"Jade?" Natasha called. She didn't receive any answer. "Jade, honey?" She repeated as panic rose in her chest and she went to check every corner of the apartment.

In the kitchen she saw a pot full of coffee. She started swearing in Russian as she made her way to the secured cellphone that they kept in the bathroom cabinet.

She pressed the number combination. "Liza Darai, code 0754," she said when the line picked up. "Agent Hawk is missing. Kidnapped, probably," she continued, her voice trembling only a little.


	9. Rule 9: When partner is hurt

**Hi all, thank you for still following this story :) We're leaving Budapest in this one.**

 **The chapter contains mentions** **/descriptions** **of torture but it is not too graphic.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Rule #9: When partner is hurt you get to take an eye for an eye**

 **Clint**

 _Pain will fade away. Breathe. Think of something else, think of your sweet revenge that will rain down on them. Think of who you take the pain for. And do not forget to breathe. Breathe._

Those were the words Clint always told the trainees he worked with. He didn't believe in lying and making them believe they could get away without pain nor did he want to show them physically what they had to count on. He always thought giving them this advice was the best he could do to prepare them.

" _Who would you take the pain for, Hawkeye?" Natasha asked when he stood above her in the gym. She was clutching at her side where she had taken a kick and still had the energy to smirk at him playfully._

 _ **Who would you take the pain for?**_ The question pounded in his head as the knife sank in his thigh, as the mercilessly rigid wooden rod landed on his ribs.

" _Who would you take the pain for, Hawkeye?" Natasha asked._

" _For anyone who needs me to," Clint answered then offering his hand to Natasha. She took it and stood up._

" _What about me? Would you take it for me?" She pushed._

" _You're already a pain in the ass, Romanoff," he joked with a wink._

 _ **Who would you take the pain for?**_

As Clint had been spending hours in captivity only taking breaks from torture to get patched up so he wouldn't bleed to death, he felt compelled to answer Natasha's question again.

 _ **Would you take it for me?**_

He would, he concluded. Moreover, he did. He had been continuously for hours and hours. Or days have passed already?

" _I'm going to ask you one more time,_ " the man said getting uncomfortably close to his face. " _Who do you work for_?" It was not in English and Clint did not recognise the language but he understood by now it was what the man was saying.

Clint did not answer. The pattern was clear by now. The guy tried to ask the same question in different languages. He probably didn't know Clint was American because he kept changing languages even after asking the question in English, for the fifth time.

Clint stayed silent. Then the man waved to the thugs in the background and they took over punishing Clint for not replying.

So far he had probably three or four fractured ribs, three bleeding wounds on his thigh and one on his shoulder, one black eye (not yet fully evolved), and a broken ring finger on his left hand that hurt him more than anything he had to endure up until that point.

But he didn't have much time to grieve over his falling archer career. He had to stay focused.

He yelled getting the hit in the stomach before the chair was pulled backwards for something that suspiciously looked like preparations for waterboarding.

Natasha appeared at the edge of his conscience as it was about to slip through his fingers.

 _ **Would you take the pain for me?**_

 _Oh I wish you could see me now, Romanoff._

* * *

 **Natasha**

"I have no idea where he is," she repeated for what seemed to be the twentieth time. Coulson sighed on the other end of the phone.

"Are you sure he is missing? He was to have a look around the warehouse, wasn't he?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I found a pot full of coffee in the kitchen when I got back."

"Which was thirteen minutes ago, yes?"

"That is correct." She didn't speak and Coulson didn't either, at least ten seconds passed when he finally talked.

"Okay, go on."

"There is nothing more to say. Have you seen the guy? He can't go one hour without a fucking cup."

"Romanoff," Phil said.

But Natasha wouldn't hear him out. "I need backup. Now. I am telling you he was taken."

Silence again.

"Phil, please," Natasha sighed. It was the first time she called him that. She could hear a groan from the phone.

"You get Team Tango. They are wrapping up a mission in Ukraine. They will be in Budapest in some hours."

Natasha still wasn't in the best relationship with Team Tango after she had beaten up their agents when Clint had brought her in. But if Team Tango was what she would get, she would make it work.

"Thank you sir."

"No problem. Keep your phone close. And report back to me every fifteen minutes."

"Yes sir." There was a moment of silent on the other end.

"Natasha?" Coulson's voice was hesitant.

"Sir?"

"Find my archer."

Natasha couldn't help but smile. "Yes sir."

But Clint Barton was not Coulson's archer. He was Natasha's. And damn sure Natasha Romanoff was not good at sharing.

* * *

 **Clint**

 _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

The water was cold and the walls of the dark room echoed his desperate panting as he tried to breathe and simultaneously tried to give up and embrace sweet, painless death.

He fought his survival instinct and at the same time he couldn't stop hoping. Hoping to see someone burst the door open, kill the thugs, or better yet, bring him a gun so he could kill them himself, and take him away from Budapest. If that's where he was, anyway.

"Who do you work for?"The man repeated. In English, this time.

When Clint coughed and gave out a sarcastic chuckle (that admittedly could be confused with a throaty squeal of pain), he was rewarded with a jab at a fractured (broken?) rib. It made him grunt as he tried to gather the strength to breathe. Or to bite his tongue and suffocate of the blood. Something, anything to take control over his own fate.

" _What is your number, Hawkeye?" Natasha asked._

 _They were in the HQ of SHIELD. Natasha couldn't sleep again so she was in his bed now, her back flushed against his front as he rested his arm over her belly._

 _Clint was already half asleep when her whisper reached him._

" _What?" He mumbled._

" _Your number. Mine is three hundred forty-two."_

" _Oh. The number." The number of days spent without being tortured, she meant._

" _I don't know, sweetheart. I never counted."_

 _Natasha stayed silent for a while. Clint thought she fell asleep. He pressed a kiss on her nape and closed his eyes ready to fall asleep too._

" _Ouch!" He groaned when Natasha reached back and pinched the skin on his hipbone._

" _That's zero."_

 _Clint laughed softly. "What do I need that number for?"_

" _When your number gets higher, you'll get motivated to keep it up. You'll want it to grow."_

Clint Barton's number was one hundred fifteen the day he was kidnapped. Now it was a steady zero and it didn't seem like it would move higher in the near future.

He took a deep breath and screamed when one of the thugs punched him in the face. Obviously he wore a ring. _How unoriginal._ And surprisingly painful too. He could feel warm blood drip down on his face and reach his lips. He looked the interrogator in the eye and poked his tongue out licking the blood off.

He almost cursed out loud when the man made a hand gesture, said something in Hungarian and Clint heard the telltale hiss of electricity. _Shit. Shit. Shit._

* * *

 **Natasha**

The members of Team Tango were not impressed that they had to do extra shifts after wrapping up a two week long mission in Kiev.

Natasha could not care less. She drank the whole pot of Clint's coffee and half of a new one she made while waiting for the team.

She went over to the two men's flat to ask what they knew about Clint. Phil had mentioned that they were agents too. But they were not there anymore.

When Phil called her again and she asked about them, he told her they were not field agents and after the "marriage counselling" they were told to go back to New York anyway. He did not share why.

Team Tango counted six members and only four of them arrived to Budapest and to her flat three hours and four minutes after Natasha made the phone call to SHIELD.

"Does he have any tracking device on him?" Colten asked.

"No," Natasha said. "We used our phones but his is dead."

"What about the arrows?" Colten went on.

Natasha frowned. _Those damn arrows._ "Let's check it," she nodded. Her arrow (#9) was in the bedroom on her bedside table. It didn't seem to give or receive any signal though as it was pitch black and looked as any other arrow. Except for the shorter shaft.

She tried to activate it in various ways but to no avail. After about three minutes agent Jepson (who Natasha had once kicked in the chest, a memory she held dear) impatiently tore it out of her hand and as he did so, the fletching turned and they could see coordinates of the other seven arrows. Six of them were in the flat, but one had a different location.

"We are not to kill anybody, unless it is absolutely necessary," Colten reminded them as they were marching down to the car.

"I am pretty sure it is absolutely necessary," Natasha murmured as she checked her guns once again.

The coordinates didn't show the warehouse Clint had wanted to check when he was taken. They led the team to the outskirts of the city which looked like the outskirts of Moscow and New York and every major city Natasha had been to.

It was another warehouse, a huge one. Natasha and three other agents closed in while the sniper on the team (agent Jones) looked for a spot to cover them.

It took Natasha thirty-two seconds to pick the lock on the back door. It took so much because the thought of finding Clint - _her_ Clint - inside dead or seriously injured and the thought of not finding him at all both froze up her otherwise quick and effective fingers.

First she could see Clint is not in the room. There were others though. The missing Team Romeo team members, along with other men and women, lay around on makeshift bunks with IV needles stuck in their arms.

But Natasha barely registered that she managed to get one part of the mission done. Her personal mission was to find Clint Barton now and nothing else could catch her attention.

She looked around again, hoping to see Clint among the unfamiliar faces when she heard a scream. A very familiar scream.

* * *

 **Clint**

If there was a torturing method Clint liked the least, it was electric shock. Well, now it was a close call given the broken finger that might cut his career in half. But normally it was electric shock. Hands down.

He hated it so much that even during practices he had never done it. It didn't mean he didn't know it though. He knew it all too well. He had had a botched mission in Marrakesh, he had made a minor mistake on a mission in South Albania and in Zimbabwe, and he had been kidnapped in Argentina too, once. There was still an ongoing argument as to whose fault that was, but nonetheless, he knew electric shock alright.

So when the waves of pain hit him again and again, he didn't hold back. He screamed, he yelled _no_ and _bloody hell_ and _don't fucking touch me_ in his rather broken Russian as if it could be enough to summon Natasha Romanoff, his blood spattered guardian angel, to the torture chamber.

And then the pain ceased. Just like that. It stopped.

"Clint?" He heard a voice. A familiar voice. A sweet, sweet voice. _Natasha_. "Clint! Clint, you alright?" Cursing in Russian. "Of course not."

The rope on his wrists gave way. She took his hands trying to help him stand up. He hissed and remembered the broken finger and career.

"Shit," he mumbled. He realised that his eyes were closed so he opened them. Then he realised the thugs were still there as one of them kept moaning in pain. The bones of his kneecap were visible. Clint was sure Natasha could have just shot him in the head, but she chose not to. She was still working on following company policy (do not cause unnecessary pain and suffering) when it came to dealing with bad guys.

He heard Natasha chuckle. She actually chuckled and that made him groan. "What's so funny, Romanoff?"

"I like it when you talk dirty," Natasha said.

"You're so naughty," Clint replied, hissing as he tried to stand up and failed. "I— Nat, I am not in the best shape."

"I kind of figured that, Barton." Natasha leaned closer to examine Clint. She frowned seeing the blood dried on his face. "Let me see." She stretched her arm and brushed her thumb against his lips tenderly.

Clint felt warmth in his stomach. He suddenly didn't understand why he was so inclined to die to escape the pain. All he needed was this to feel whole again. To feel like a human. _Please don't stop touching me._

Natasha might be able to read minds, he decided, because her hand slipped into his hair gently massaging his scalp.

"Please…" the man on the floor mumbled reaching towards the two of them. "Doctor… please…"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "We're having a moment, asshole," she called and turned back to Clint.

Clint raised his eyebrow. "Come on," he whispered. Natasha shrugged and lazily lifted the gun, shooting the man in the forehead. But she did not tear her gaze away from Clint's.

"How long have I been here?" He asked.

"About six hours passed since I got home. You weren't there. You were taken some time during the eight hours before that."

"Took you long enough," Clint said with a smirk on his busted lips.

The rescue was pretty quick. He had partners who took days getting him out of hellholes like this one. Natasha must know it too. She had enough experience in getting tortured for prolonged periods.

"Wanted to make sure you'd be really happy to see me," she winked.

"I want a new partner."

"Not a fucking chance. You're stuck with me."

* * *

Clint lay in the bed of the safe house. The doctor talked to Natasha briefly in Hungarian before leaving them alone.

Natasha walked up to the bed and handed Clint a glass of water. "He says you'll live."

"You don't have to say it so sad."

She laughed softly and crawled into bed curling up next to him. Clint caressed her hair with the hand that was not in bandage.

"When are we going home?" He asked.

"Well, doc patched you up alright, so when you feel better. Probably in four days or so."

"What about Rebeka?"

"Apparently eliminating her is not part of our mission. We were to find Team Romeo and the American tourists. And to get samples. We did just that."

"So we just let her continue?"

"No. Fury will eventually send a team to get her off the streets. But the first phase is done now."

"But what if she keeps killing people in the meantime?"

"Barton. It is not our concern," Natasha responded. Before Clint could react, she went on. "But I happen to know how you feel about innocent people's lives on the line. So yesterday night I went and talked to her."

Clint chuckled. "And? Did you get her see reason?"

"It was difficult. But she did promise she would not touch civilians anymore. I guess that's what she wanted to promise, anyway. It was hard for her to talk with a broken jaw."

"Now she might flee the country."

"Yeah."

"Fury will be so mad at you."

"Probably."

"You don't seem worried."

Natasha looked up at him. "As long as you don't call me a heartless bitch again, Barton."

Clint smirked and leaned on to kiss her. It was touching to know she did something she would have never done if it wasn't for him and his preference to keep civilians out of the havoc that always seemed to be around SHIELD operations. He figured this was as good as a love note from Natasha Romanoff. And god, did he appreciate a jaw broken just for him.

* * *

 **Natasha**

Clint was not in the mood to chat on the private jet back to the US when they were finally allowed to leave Budapest.

Not even the new set of arrows could brighten his mood that Coulson sent over with the jet for him to examine. He didn't even touch them.

Natasha wondered why. Was it something she had said or done? Yes, they had their ups and downs lately, they had even had a "marriage counselling" session. But they had managed to resolve that during the whole kidnap adventure, right?

Apparently not.

Natasha didn't have the chance to fake a nightmare and slip into Clint's bed during the night to find out what his problem was.

She was about to get up when she heard the door open. She reached for the arrow (#9) under the pillow, but it was Hawkeye himself entering her room.

"Don't shoot," he said with a faint smirk.

"Are you afraid of your partner, Barton?" She asked letting go of the arrow and sitting up. "What's up?"

He stayed silent.

Natasha groaned. "Nightmare, huh?"

He nodded.

Natasha moved over so he could climb into bed and he buried his head into the crook of her neck. She ran her fingers through his hair. "What is it, Clint? You've been sulking ever since we got on the jet."

Clint sighed. He stayed quiet for so long that Natasha started to wonder if he was asleep. "My finger. I got it pretty bad. What if I will have to give up archery? I won't be worth shit to SHIELD without my skills. I won't be worth shit at all."

Natasha was surprised by the confession. She pulled back to look at him. "Clint."

Clint groaned and lifted up his head. "Nat?"

Natasha cleared her throat. "I am not going to try and convince you that your worth is not what you can do with a bow and arrows. Or that you are a spy and master assassin and quite good at getting through anything that gets in your way or that there is more to life than killing for money. That you could always find new dreams to chase. Or that SHIELD can suck it and we'll run off together if we need to. This might be all true, but it is irrelevant. You know why?"

"Why?" Clint asked dutifully.

"Because I talked to your doctor in Budapest and the one here as well. You are going to make a full recovery."

A small smile tugged at her lips and then evolved into a full blown grin. "Am I?"

"Yes. There are recommendations you'll need to pay attention to, like no training for some weeks, and physiotherapy too. But you'll be fine. I'll see to it."

"You'll scare my finger into submission?" Clint teased.

"If I have to," Natasha nodded. "Everything for my husband."

"Best wife ever."


	10. Rule 10: Team commitment is essential

**Hi everyone, sorry for the late update and thank you for the lovely feedback. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Rule #10: Team commitment is essential**

 **Clint**

"Spaghetti alla carbonara," Clint said.

"This is just a pizza," Natasha explained.

They sat on Clint's bed and ate bad pizza leaning over the paper box.

They ordered it because Clint loved trash food and Natasha had always been used to a strict diet, so anything greasy and containing too much melted cheese was a thrilling concept for her.

"No. I mean we should make spaghetti alla carbonara."

Natasha looked at him funnily. "You want to cook? Together?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"You can cook?"

Clint shrugged. "I get the general idea."

Natasha smiled.

"And it is not that difficult," Clint argued suddenly feeling at unease. "It's pasta after all."

Natasha was in her panties and a tank top, he wore his underwear only. Still, cooking together suddenly seemed too intimate, something they might not be ready for.

Which was a joke really, because two months passed since they had got back from Budapest. They had a steady and very satisfying sexual relationship and a reliable professional one.

Cooking together sounded like a nice activity: it was cosy, friendly and they would get food out of it.

On the other hand it was a date. Whether or not they acknowledged it, that was what it was.

And what really bothered Clint was the fact that he wanted that date.

"Well, making good pasta is not as easy as you make it sound," Natasha said.

"And you know that because...?"

"Well, glad you ask, darling," Natasha smirked. "As it is, I am the biggest pasta expert you can find in this ridiculously large city of yours."

"New York is not my city," Clint remarked.

"Is that so? What is your city then?"

"Waverly, Iowa."

Natasha looked at him for so long without another word that Clint put his half-eaten pizza slice down.

"So you're like... a farm boy?"

Clint chuckled. "Yes, I'm exactly that. Does it make me less attractive?"

"On the contrary."

"And what about you? Who taught you to cook pasta? Mother Russia?"

This was the most lighthearted Natasha could ever get and Clint was still worried. Talking about her past and her country of origin was always a sensitive topic.

He wondered if he ruined the whole night with the comment, but after a beat of silence she chuckled and it was the most heartwarming sound he had heard in a while. _Thank God._

"Uncle Sam," she responded with a wink. "I had a mission here back then with the KGB. Had to work at a kitchen of an Italian restaurant for cover. The owner's grandmother taught me some good tricks."

"Wow. I kind of thought you were just bluffing."

Natasha grinned. "Don't draw conclusions so soon, Barton. Wait until you get to taste the infamous Romanoff-pasta."

* * *

 **Natasha**

Chantal Davids was a new recruit for STRIKE Team Foxtrot and she had the longest legs Natasha had ever seen. She was also kind, chatty and funny, or so she heard from the guys during training, and Natasha hated her.

It wasn't because she was an attractive woman. Natasha barely cared about the gaze of men on her body anymore.

It wasn't because she talked too much and made a point of throwing her hair behind her shoulder with a swift motion that made it look like she was straight from Baywatch.

It wasn't because Natasha saw her on the training mat and it was clear her best trick was being a woman and Natasha would never be able to respect someone who charms her way out of a training this way.

She could get over any of that.

What she could not get over however, was the fact that Chantal decided she wanted Clint.

When Natasha noticed it first, she wondered if she was overreacting.

 _It was innocent enough after all. All Chantal did was walk up to Clint in the gym and ask him to help with her gloves before heading to the punching bag._

 _That was all and still, Natasha had to take a deep breath before Clint turned back to her._

" _You alright?" He smiled._

 _Natasha loved that smile. So she smiled back. "Yeah. Let's do it," she said pointing at the mat._

But it turned out soon enough that her reaction was perfectly justified, along with the heavy feeling in her gut.

Chantal wanted Clint. Natasha was sure of that.

She just didn't know what she wanted him for. A night? Close friend with extras? A lifetime?

Well, it didn't truly matter after all. Because Natasha wanted Clint too. And she was so ready to protect her territory.

* * *

"I didn't think you would take this so serious," Natasha remarked as she walked into the kitchen.

"It's food. It has to be taken seriously," Clint explained.

"Is that right?" Natasha teased. Clint had packed the kitchen counter with the ingredients not only for the pasta but for something that looked like a future pie.

"Are we baking too?"

"Yeah. It makes no sense to start preparing dinner without dessert."

"How is it that you eat like this and still look like this?" Natasha asked taking a look at the muscular arms that were visible in the old t-shirt he wore.

Clint grinned before winking at her. "I'm a witch," he whispered.

"What's your power?" Natasha asked as she started boiling the water.

"Seduction. Is it working?" Clint smirked.

"It has been. You got me in your bed after all."

"And I am so fucking proud of that," Clint nodded solemnly which made warmth pool in Natasha's stomach.

"It's a good story to tell the guys in a smoky bar, huh?" she finally said. "Tapped the Black Widow and lives to tell the tale."

"Oh no, not that," Clint chuckled. "I am actually proud of getting Natasha Romanoff to trust me. Now that's something."

Natasha's face probably didn't work as she couldn't hide her surprise.

Clint looked up at her and smiled. "What is it?" He asked. "Many men slept with the Widow. How many slept with Natasha?"

Natasha turned back to the stove so she could contain the sudden urge of emotions. "Not many," she finally replied. The answer was _only you_ , but she didn't want to say that to him. He was smug enough already.

Suddenly she felt two arms around her waist and Clint pressed a kiss on her nape. "Everything alright?"

She smiled as she turned around giving him a kiss on the lips. "Definitely. I'm just worried about your pie crust making abilities."

Clint laughed softly. "Remember that time I drove up to bloody Canada to get your ass back here?"

"Yeah."

"You trusted me with your life then."

"Yeah, so?"

"But when it comes to pie crust, you have doubts?"

"It's food. It has to be taken seriously," Natasha repeated his words with a smile.

"It's done," Natasha claimed as she finished sprinkling Parmesan on two portions of pasta.

"Pie's in the oven," Clint said.

Natasha smiled as they sat down by the table. "So is it your fist pie?"

Clint looked down on his clothes that had flour and fruit juice and butter all over. "That obvious?"

Natasha leaned forward and swiped her thumb over a patch of mashed raspberry on Clint's neck. Then she put her thumb in her mouth and licked the fruit off.

"Kind of," she responded making Clint laugh.

The pasta was great and so was sitting there eating homemade food together.

So Natasha was understandably upset when she heard a familiar voice.

"Oh my god, it smells so good in here!"

Clint turned away to smile at the intruder. "Hey Chantal. Are you here for the post-workout snack?"

The _post-workout snack_ was a well known concept among the agents. Everyone had favourite snacks and they were always available in the common kitchens. Natasha was sure it was Fury's doing but she didn't think their relationship was secure enough to confront him about her suspicion just yet.

"Yeah," Chantal nodded. "I'm starving." But instead of just grabbing her damned snack and leaving, Chantal kept smiling at Clint, who kept smiling back at her for some reason.

"Did you microwave this?" she asked Clint, clearly teasing.

To Natasha's horror, Clint chuckled.

"We thought it would be nice to have a homemade dinner once," he responded.

Natasha desperately tried to find a way to let Chantal know that she was trespassing. She wanted to sit in Clint's lap, to start making out with him furiously, to talk to Chantal about how great her sex life has been recently (and Clint's too, she might add; she knew that first hand). Whatever needed to be done to clear that smile off her perfectly glossed lips. Wasn't she coming from training, anyway? She seemed way too relaxed for that. And not sweaty enough.

Chantal obviously didn't realise that she was not welcome.

"My my, aren't you just starving?" she asked. "What's in there?" she pointed at the oven.

"That's the Barton-pie," Clint said.

"Really now? Are you a pie expert?"

Okay, this was most definitely flirting. That woman had the audacity to come in here and start openly flirting with the man that clearly was there to spend time with Natasha. The entitlement made Natasha's stomach turn.

"We are here to find out," Clint responded.

"Are we?" Chantal asked and something inside Natasha snapped by the way she so obviously hijacked what Clint meant by _we_. _What a cheap trick._

She stood up and grabbed her empty plate, then shoved it in the sink.

"Nat…?" Clint called as she headed to the exit.

"I'm full," Natasha said barely glancing in his direction.

"But the pie is—"

"I'll have some later, Barton. If you don't devour it all."

As Chantal glared at her, she was sure she had plans about devouring all she could.

* * *

 **Clint**

Natasha's behaviour was weird, honestly.

Clint and Chantal tasted the pie which was great. And Natasha liked pie as she like desserts and sweets in general.

So it was only natural Clint headed to her room with a slice of the Barton-pie.

What was not natural was that she didn't respond to his knocking. It couldn't be that she didn't hear it because for one, she had exceptionally good hearing and she was overly sensitive to any kind of noise, and also because Clint kept knocking for at least a minute.

"Romanoff?" He finally called. "Will you open it? I got pie."

"Not hungry," Natasha called back.

"Come on. It is my pie. My first pie. And you love pie."

Natasha was clearly grumbling as she opened the door. "Is it good?"

He raised his eyebrow. "It is the Barton-pie. It has to be. And Chantal liked it too, so—"

Natasha didn't let him finish. She grabbed the plate from his hand. "I'll try it later," she said curtly and all but shut the door into his face. Something she had never ever done before.

* * *

Clint was sure something was not right and he knew how to get it out of Natasha.

So he made his way to the gym at 7am two days later.

Natasha liked to train early in the morning when the gym was relatively empty. When she was upset, she would go back in the evening as well. When she was in a particularly bad mood, she spent there half a day and he needed to stack up on chocolate bars to get her back to her room.

She was already there when he arrived. She stood in front of a punching bag and repeatedly tried something that looked like a lethal chest kick.

"I think the bag wants to tap you out," Clint said from behind her.

She turned around sharply.

"The bag takes it well," she replied.

"You want to try it on someone more responsive?" Clint asked as he rolled his shoulders and stood on the mat.

Natasha smirked. "You couldn't handle me, Barton."

Clint was about to retort, but as he looked into her eyes, it was clear she was not joking around or teasing. She was dead serious.

So he decided to go with the plan and see if he would come out alive in the end.

"I can handle you alright, Romanoff. Come on, give me all you got."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes. Give me the Widow, baby."

In hindsight, Clint mused as Natasha's kick made him fall on his back and in the next moment her thighs closed around his neck, it was probably a bad idea to ask for the Widow.

He tapped her out and coughed before sitting up and tilting his head to the side to assess her.

"What is it with you, Nat?" He asked.

Natasha was still panting as she lay back and stared at the ceiling.

"What do you mean?"

"You're clearly mad at me."

"Am not," she said.

"Well, you're doing a damn good job to pretend you are then," Clint pointed out. He sighed and lay down next to Natasha. "Nat, please. Talk to me. Was it…" he trailed off and took a deep breath before going on. "Was it the cooking?"

Natasha turned her head to face him and Clint couldn't decide what her eyes held. Was it anger? Irritation? Disappointment?

But Clint had been thinking about it for days now and it seemed the only logical conclusion. It was too early, too much, too intimate, too unprofessional… whatever. Something changed during the pasta dinner and Clint was desperate to find out what so he could solve it and go back to what it was like between them before.

So he continued. "I'm sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable or something. I realise we have a professional relationship first and foremost, and we are partners and I value that you are always there to have my back. Or my broken finger," he added as he remembered Budapest. "I didn't want to—" But before he could continue, he was cut off by Natasha rolling over him again, but this time it was not the Black Widow. It was Nat, _his Nat_ who kissed him feverishly and so sweetly that it made him moan.

Natasha giggled as she pulled back to breathe.

"It was not the cooking. I loved it."

Clint smiled. "Did you? You didn't stay for the pie."

And that was it. Natasha's face started to shut down. When she talked next, she was cold and measured.

"Davids was there to keep you company though."

Clint frowned. "What are you… oh. Oh!"

He sat up and tried to wipe the stupid grin off his face.

"What?" Natasha all but barked. It sounded rather defensive.

"You're jealous, sweetheart, aren't you?" Clint asked with a chuckle.

Natasha's face turned pale and she stood up. "I am definitely _not_ jealous of that…" she paused to find the right word and then shrugged. "Of that _bitch_ ," she finally said thrusting her chin upwards.

And before Clint could say anything she turned around and left the gym in such a hurry she left behind her shoes that she had discarded before fighting him.

* * *

 **Natasha**

Clint arrived that night at 11:38pm with her training shoes in his hands.

Natasha briefly entertained the thought of refusing to let him in after the embarrassing episode in the gym. But she would have to work together with him in the end. And it was hard to admit, but she had grown to like Clint. These days without him were hard and she wanted to sort things out between them.

"Thanks," she murmured and took the shoes to drop them by the door.

Clint just waved dismissively and made himself comfortable on her bed.

"Listen, I am sorry about that scene today," Natasha said turning back to him and stepping closer to the bed. "Whatever you want to do with whoever is not my business, really. Davids is a beautiful girl, or so I hear from the boys."

Clint raised his eyebrow and pulled his legs under himself. "Have you ever heard it from me?" He asked.

"No."

"And why is that?" He pressed. When Natasha shrugged, he went on. "I don't have eyes for other women here, Nat. I thought you were supposed to be a spy. You could have found out by now that I'm pretty invested in you."

Natasha frowned. "I _am_ a spy. A damn good one." A good spy who knew how to play a woman but had forgotten that she was one herself.

Clint seemed to understand it all as he leaned over and reached for her hand. "Romanoff. I… what we have, right now. I like it. I think it's great. And I want to spend as much time with you as I can, on and off missions. That's what I said to Chantal too."

Natasha bit her lip. She felt such a relief that she would have been disgusted by it back in her KGB days. Emotions were for children, she repeated in her head. But as she looked into Clint's beautiful honest eyes, she was tempted to believe that maybe some emotions were suitable for adults as well.

She took his hand and was snapped out of her thoughts as she looked down. He wore a bracelet on his left wrist. She saw black leather stripes that held a red hourglass.

The Black Widow symbol.

She had to swallow before she would do something embarrassing again. Like choking on her own tears.

"Interesting fashion choice," she said as she kneeled on the bed.

He kept puling her until she was sitting squarely on his lap with one leg on each side of him and he leaned his back against the bedpost. "It's more like a fashion _statement_ ," he said.

She smiled and kissed him. "I like your statement," she replied simply.

Yes, she decided. Some emotions are for adults.

* * *

Clint didn't say anything when he saw the little arrow on the necklace five days later. He didn't say anything but he made love to her differently that night, with more passion and less reservation. He didn't mention the necklace afterwards either but he held her the whole night. It felt different too. But it felt so right that Natasha decided she would never take the necklace off again.


End file.
